I stared at her, not believing. "Why, Mary," I said, hedging, as a person will in such circumstances, "it ain't a cinch that I'm right. I'm only a boy, and of course things appear to me boy fashion."
She cut me short. "To be honest, doubts have troubled me before this. Your history proves what can be done by extreme—"
Up to this she had spoken quite quietly. Now she put her head in her hands and burst out crying; fortunately we were in a little summer-house where no one could see us.
"Oh, Will!" she sobbed out, "the struggle for nothing at all! All fight, fight, and no peace! I want to be a good woman, I do; but what is there for me?"
"Listen to me again," says I, so sorry that I had another attack of reason. "There's this for you—to be a man's wife, and make him twice a man because you are his wife; to raise boys and girls that prove what's right—there's a job for you."
She dried her tears and smiled at me, ashamed of showing so much feeling. "Is this an offer?" she said.
I had to laugh. "You don't squirm out that way, young lady—you were in earnest and you know it. I'll take you, if necessary—by the Prophet Moses, I will, if some other feller doesn't show up soon—but I want to speak of a more suitable man."
She looked at me. It was a try at being stern, but, as a result, it was a good deal more scared.
"You can do a great deal with me, Will," she said, "but I'll not hear a word of Arthur Saxton."
"Then," says I, stern in dead earnest, "you are a foolish and an unfair woman. You've believed what was told you; now you shall hear a friend."