So faint had been her hope that she scarce felt a sting in relinquishing it.
"Yes," she said. "Wait until I light the lamp."
She did so, and Homer came forward into the light, his broad shoulders seeming to fill the room as he stood, clad in a rough frieze coat that enveloped him from shoulder to heel. He took it off silently, laid it over the chair she had placed for him, and, going at once to her side, put his hands upon her shoulders.
"Well, Myron," he said, "do you remember asking what you could do to repay me for what I had done?"
"Yes," she said, knowing that her time of trial had come.
"Then," he said, bending over her, his face flushing, his tones vibrant, "I can tell you in a moment." He paused, to steady his voice. "Will you marry me, Myron?"
There was a moment of breathless suspense—an instant of absolute silence.
"No," she said, firmly enough; but her hands closed tremblingly upon his sleeve.
"Myron!" he ejaculated. "Myron! You do not mean it! Why—I love you, Myron!" he broke forth, with passion; "I will have you! Do you think I would be bad to you? Do you think I would be unkind to the boy? I can't stand to see you live like this!" He glanced at the bare room, which suddenly seemed to show all its gaunt corners, all its angles, all the scantiness of its meagre comforts. It was the very skeleton of a home.
"Myron!" He stopped—she was looking at him with words upon her lips.