"Then it's true what—what—"
His tongue grew parched.
"Yep, but trust me, please!" cried Tess.
Trust her! Believe in her with her confession ringing in his ears. God, if he did not love her, it wouldn't be so hard to believe, to trust, to help. But with this fierce jealousy stabbing at his heart, he felt he must know more—all. His mind went back to that time when she had come to him with a child in a basket, and her plea had been the same, "Oh, trust me! Please trust me!"
"If you could only ... tell me ... something," he groaned.
"It air true what Mr. Waldstricker hit me fer," bowed Tess, swallowing hard, "but I can't say nothin' 'bout it, I can't! I ain't able to tell nothin' more'n that!"
Young still stood several feet from her.
"I must do something to help you," he implored. "Won't you even tell me when it—it will be, Tessibel?"
Through her tense fingers the girl murmured a stifled "March."
March—scarce three months away! He would have given five years of his life to have had her tell him the truth about this thing that had crushed her. He made a nervous movement with his fingers to his hair.