"I've come to stay!" she repeated.
He wavered. But his old decision had still another word. "There's one more thing, Helen. We can speak of it—we are no longer children."
"No," she said. Her mind fluttered back a month to when they had stood together at the window of the Mission, and she smiled tremulously. "I'm twenty-eight."
He remembered the day, too, and smiled. "And I'm thirty-one—and see, the gray hairs!"
His face sobered. "There's another thing—children. Would it be fair to them?—to be born into disgrace?"
A faint colour tinged her cheeks. "I have thought of everything—that too," she returned steadily. "In a few years you will have won the respect of all; it will be an honour, not a disgrace, to be your child."
Suddenly she stretched out her hands to him. "Oh, I want to share your sorrows, David! I want to share your sorrows! And there will be glories! I want to help in the good you are going to do. My life will count for most with you ... I've come to stay, David! I belong with you! I'm not going away! Take me!"
He sprang forward. "Oh, Helen!" his soul cried out; and he gathered her into his arms.
A few minutes later, when he returned from telephoning an old clergyman whom she knew well, she met him with a glowing smile. "I've been all through it—I shall love it, our home!"