She set the gruel on the back of the stove and went in to his bedside.
“I don’t sleep much; I just lie an’ think ... Amanda, ... now, they’re all away, ... if I get over this spell, ... an’ take a year to straighten up an’ get hold o’ things like other folks, ... do you think ... you’d risk ... marryin’ me?”
There was a moment’s dead silence; then Amanda said, turning pale: “Are you in your right mind, Caleb Kimball?”
“I am, but I don’t wonder at your askin’,” said the man humbly. “I’ve kind o’ fancied you for years; but you’ve always been way down there across the fields, out o’ reach!”
“I’m too amazed to think it out,” faltered Amanda.
“Don’t you think it out, for God’s sake, or you’ll never do it!” He caught at her hand as if it had been a life-line—her kind, smooth hand, the helpful hand with the bit of white cambric bound round a finger burned in his service.
“It was the kitchen that put the courage into me,” he went on feverishly. “I laid here an’ thought: ‘If she can make a house look so different in a week, what could she do with a man?’”
“I ain’t afraid but I could,” stammered Amanda; “if the man would help—not hinder.”
“Just try me, Amanda. I wouldn’t need a year—honest, I wouldn’t—I could show you in three months!”
Caleb’s strength was waning now. His head dropped forward and Amanda caught it on her breast. She put one arm round his shoulders to keep him from falling back, while her other hand supported his head. His cheek was wet and as she felt the tears on her palm, mutely calling to her strength, all the woman in her gathered itself together and rushed to meet the man’s need.