“I know I am not fit for you, not good enough for you, Joan. There isn’t a man living who would be—but—I love you—dear, and with God’s help I would try to make you a happy woman.”
Manly words, honest and sincere, she knew, as must be all that this man said and did—a man to rely on, a very tower of strength; a man to protect her, a man to whom she could take her troubles and her secrets, knowing full well that he would not fail her.
And while these thoughts passed in her mind she sat there silently, her hand in his, and never thought to draw it away.
“Joan, will you be my wife, dear? I am asking for more than I could ever deserve. There is nothing about me that makes me worthy of that great happiness and honour, save one thing—my love for you.”
“And yet,” she said, and broke her silence for the first time, “there is one question that you do not ask me, Johnny.”
“One question?”
“You do not ask me if I love you!”
“How can I ask for the impossible, the unlikely? There is nothing in me for such a girl as you to love.”
“There is much in you for any woman to love. There is honesty and truth and bravery, and a clean sweet mind. I know all that, I know that you are a good man, Johnny. I know that; but oh, I do not love you!”
“I know,” he said sadly. “I know that.” And his hand seemed to slip away from hers.