"For him, yes, and for you!"
"For me?"—a wonderful tenderness stole into the man's voice—"for me? I do not think any one before—ever cried for me. Thank you. You understand what all this meant to me? What a—woman you will be—if——"
Priscilla raised her tear-stained face and her lips quivered as she recalled that Farwell had said almost exactly the same words to her back there in the In-Place. She understood because she had been lonely and known the suffering of the lonely. She must never forget, never fail those who needed her! But Boswell was talking on again with a new note of feeling in his voice.
"While I thought him dead I sank back into my shell, sank lower than I had ever been before. I wanted to die; wanted it so truly that I planned it; grew interested in arranging my affairs. Preparing to die became my excitement, and when everything was ready, Farwell spoke to me—from his grave! That letter from your In-Place worked a miracle upon me. While he lived there would always be something for me to do. He had made a place in the world for me; I could keep his place ready for him. It was a small return, but it meant life—for me.
"There were years when Farwell felt he was coming back. I heard from him spring and autumn, and there were hope and promise each time. When people forgot, he would return, and he wanted to go to—to Joan Moss himself with his story. So long as he knew that she was alive and faithful it was enough, and, besides, he realized that had she or I gone to him just then it might have been fatal. He believed that if she knew where he was she would hasten to him!
"Well, just at first I thought that he might come at any time and might rescue—Joan Moss. I was even willing for him to have her if it could add any happiness to him. Then there was the money—his money. I kept his belief in that, too. Everything of his went at the time of the trial, but mine was his, so that was a small matter. I suppose all the sentiment and passion that most men spread over their entire lives were, in me, concentrated on Farwell. When I thought of him caged and alone, in the wilds, I found lying to him about the only thing I could do. So I kept his belief in Joan Moss and his fortune. Then something happened to him. I never knew what it was, but it seemed to take all the hope and courage from him. He wanted me to see that Joan Moss was well taken care of, and in case of his death she must have all that he died possessed of. Just at that time Joan Moss came to me, a wreck! She lived only six months, but for his sake I saw that she had all that he would have had for her. She thought that he gave it to her, too, or at least she thought his money gave it, since it was in his will that she should have it. His name was on her lips when the end came. I will tell him that some day. It will help him to forgive me. After that I wrote and wrote to him, making frantic efforts to secure to him, until he were free, what existed no longer on earth! That is all."
The fire had died down and become ashy; the wind no longer howled; the night had fallen into peace at last.
Priscilla got up stiffly, for she was cold and nerve-worn. She walked unsteadily to Boswell, her tear-stained face twitching with emotion, her hands outstretched. In her eyes was the look that only once or twice in his life had Boswell ever seen directed toward him by any human being—the look that claimed the hidden and best in him, forgetting the deformities that limited him.
"I think you are the best man on earth, the noblest friend. Oh! what can we do for Master Farwell?"
Quite simply Boswell took the hands in his. Her eyes made him brave and strong, and her "we" throbbed in his thoughts like a warm and tender caress.