“Grace,” he urged, “don't—don't hesitate any longer. You were meant to be my wife. We were brought together for just that. I know it. Come.”
She was crying softly.
“Won't you?” he begged.
“I don't know,” she sobbed. “Oh, I don't know! I must think—I MUST! Wait, please wait, John. Perhaps by to-morrow I can answer. I'll try—I'll try. Don't ask me again, now. Let me think. Oh, do!”
Doubtless he would have asked her again. He looked as if he meant to. But just then, drifting through the twilight and the mist, came the sound of a bell, the bell of the Regular church, ringing for the Sunday evening meeting. They both heard it.
“Oh!” exclaimed Grace, “that is your bell. You will be late. You must go, and so must I. Good night.”
She started down the path. He hesitated, then ran after her.
“To-morrow?” he questioned eagerly. “Tomorrow, then, you'll say that you will?”
“Oh, perhaps, perhaps! I mustn't promise. Good night.”
It was after seven when Grace reached the old tavern. The housekeeper, Mrs. Poundberry, was anxiously awaiting her. She wore her bonnet and Sunday gown and was evidently ready to go out.