“No doubt. But these things do not worry me in the least. Mr. Farrar, my mind is made up. You cannot discourage me, nor drive me out of this contest. I shall be with you—to the end.”
She stood in the soft glow of the shaded lamp, a picture of resolute and splendid young womanhood; a modern Joan of Arc, as brave-souled and pure-spirited as her prototype of old. The rector of Christ Church stepped forward and took the hand she held out to him.
“You are an inspiration,” he said; “you have filled me with fresh courage to-night. We shall fight together. I believe God will give us the victory.”
Her hand lay in his, warm, firm, clinging; pledge of her loyalty to him and of her faith in his ideals.
“There is one matter of immediate concern,” he added, after a moment, “in which I want to ask your assistance.”
“You shall have it.”
“Thank you! You remember the Bradley case in court? The one that resulted in an enforced verdict?”
“Very well, indeed. I have fought it over with Phil several times. But I can’t convince him that the verdict was unjust.”
“I feel that it was. You know Bradley died?”
“Yes; and I know you said things at his burial for which his fellow-workmen have been commending you ever since. His widow declined to receive you, did she not?”