“Yes, Mr. Dale.”
“And I have learned, too—without knowing it. I have learned very gradually that I do not love Judith Batterly—so gradually, indeed, that I did not realize until to-day the extent of my knowledge. She told me in her letter it was so—then I knew.”
She sat very still, her head thrown back, her eyes on the sky. The stirring leaves made shadows on her gown, the moonlight flicked through the vines above her, and her hair glittered like gilt. Her eyes were big and shining, and something on her cheek was shining, too.
“Praying—still, Wanza?” I whispered, after a time.
She put out her hand.
“Please, Wanza, say a prayer for me.”
“I am praying that what you told me is true.”
“It is true. Pray that I be forgiven for being a stupid, clumsy fellow, unable to appreciate your true worth—” I stopped. I was being carried on and I knew not where I desired to pause. I checked myself, and bit my lip.
“I could not offer such a prayer,” I heard her say. “I am not worth anything to anybody, Mr. Dale, except to Father. I am going to try, though, to make myself all over—knowing you want me to improve, and to show you I take your kindness to heart. I think I am improving a little, don’t you? I don’t talk so loud, and I dress quieter—more quietly—and I speak better. Can’t you see an improvement, Mr. Dale?”
“Someway, Wanza,” I replied, speaking musingly, “I like you as you are—as you have always been. It is only for your own sake that I care to have you improve.” And as I said the words I realized that this thought had been in the back of my mind for some time, and that Wanza’s piquant utterances and lapses in English had never jarred on me—that it was strictly true that it was only for Wanza’s own sake I would have her changed.