"All," she answered. "Everything that I said to you the first day that we met here is still true. Don't you see that I can never, never be more to you than I am now?"
As one who hears himself sentenced to life-exile Big Dan dropped his head, burying his face in his hands.
And seeing him so, such a figure of helpless strength, the woman's gray eyes filled with tears, that were not yet permitted to fall. In his presence she would be strong—afterwards her own heart should have its way.
Once her hand went out, slowly towards the shaggy red-brown hair, but was silently withdrawn, and the trembling white fingers again plucked the young blades of grass.
So they sat, these two—face to face with their hearts' tragedy, each—for the other's sake—striving to be strong.
"Tell me," he said at last, raising his head but not looking her in the face, and speaking in tones that were strained and hard, "if I were anything else, if I were engaged in any other work, would you be my wife?"
"Why do you ask that?"
"Because I must know," he answered almost harshly.
"If you were a common laborer, a business or professional man, if your work was anything honorable and right, save what it is—yes, gladly; oh, how gladly!"
"Then," he burst forth hotly, "I will give up my work. I will be something else!"