"You think that, David? You are not trying to comfort me?"
Martin got up. He seemed suddenly in a hurry to be off. He had given what he could to meet Doris's need—given it briefly, concisely, as was his way.
Doris brought his coat and held it for him—her face lifted to his with that yearning in her eyes that always unnerved him. It was the look of one who must offer an empty cup to another who thirsted. Then she spoke, after all the silent years:
"David, I have always loved you, but I am beginning to understand at last about love. I had not the 'call' in my soul. Merry had it, the mountain mother had it—but it never came to me. Without it, I dared not offer to pay the cost of marriage. That would have been unjust to you. I did realize that, but the deeper truth has only come recently. I wonder if you can understand, dear, if I say now, even now, that I would be glad for you to marry and be happy—as you should be?"
"Doris, I counted that all up years ago. It did not weigh against you!" Martin's voice was husky.
"Then, David, be my friend and the friend of my little children. For their sakes, I implore your help along the way."
Martin bent and touched his lips to Doris's head which was bowed before him.
"Thank you," he said with infinite tenderness; "you are permitting me to share all that you have, my dear. Good-night."