“Mistress Van Volkenberg,” I continued, “I am a plain woer. I do not know how to tell you what I feel. My heart tells me that I love you, but how shall I make you know it? Bid me to do something. Prove my love. Do you care nothing for how I feel?”
She came a step closer. “I am a Catholic.”
“Does not that prove my love? You know what I have had to suffer from your church.”
“Yes, you have told me a little,” she answered. “But—”
I would have no buts. I caught both her hands in mine and gazed into her eyes wondering what she would say if she knew who I really was. For a moment she held away from me. Then I felt her sway gently forward.
“Do you love me, Miriam?”
“Yes.”
For a moment I held her in my arms. Her face lay close upon my shoulder. I could feel her heart beating quickly, and there was a sweet smell about her hair like fresh flowers. Then she whispered softly:
“Call me Miriam again.”
“My sweet Miriam.”