But the man appeared not to hear; he was still on his knees.
Tim faced the woods once more.
He was about to mount his horse when he heard a step behind him. He turned sharply—and faced Laura. “I couldn’t rest. I came out this morning. I’ve seen everything,” she said.
“You didn’t trust me,” he said heavily.
“I never did anything else,” she answered.
He gazed half-fearfully into her eyes. “Well?” he asked. “I’ve done my best, as I said I would.”
“Tim,” she said, and slipped a hand in his, “would you mind the religion—if you had me?”
THE LITTLE WIDOW OF JANSEN
Her advent to Jansen was propitious. Smallpox in its most virulent form had broken out in the French-Canadian portion of the town, and, coming with some professional nurses from the East, herself an amateur, to attend the sufferers, she worked with such skill and devotion that the official thanks of the Corporation were offered her, together with a tiny gold watch, the gift of grateful citizens. But she still remained on at Jansen, saying always, however, that she was “going East in the spring.”