“And then?” said Brian.
“And then,” confessed Betty Jo, “whatever it was that was keeping me awake came back, and went on keeping me awake until I was simply forced to go to you for help again.”
Poor Betty Jo! She knew very well that she ought not to be saying those things to the man who, while he listened, could not hide the love that shone in his eyes.
And Brian Kent, as he thought of this woman, whom he loved with all the strength of his best self, creeping to the door of his room for comfort in the lonely night, scarcely dared trust himself to speak. At last, when their silence was becoming unbearable, he said, gently: “You poor child! Why didn't you call to me?”
And Betty Jo, hearing in his voice that which told her how near he was to the surrender that would bring disaster to them both, was aroused to the defense. The gray eyes never wavered as she answered, bravely: “I was afraid of that, too.”
And so Betty Jo confessed her love that answered so to his need; but, in her very confession, saved their love from themselves. If she had lowered her eyes—Brian Kent, in reverent acknowledgment, bowed his head before her. Then, rising, he walked to the window, where he stood for some time looking out, but seeing nothing.
“It was that horrid man coming yesterday that has so upset us,” said Betty Jo, at last. “We were getting on so beautifully, too. I wish he had gone somewhere else for his vegetables and eggs and things!”
Brian was able to smile at this as he turned to face her again, and they both knew that,—for that time, at least,—the danger-point was safely past.
“I wish so, too,” he agreed; “but never mind; Auntie Sue will be home in a day or two, and then everything will be all right again.”
But when he had taken his hat and was starting out for the day's work, Betty Jo asked, “What are you doing to-day?”