“Little girl—what is it? You are sick?”
She shook her head.
“No, I am not—I am not sick,” and she tried to free her hand, but could not.
“’Tana,” and his teeth closed for a moment on his lip lest he say all the warm words that leaped up from his heart at sight of her face, which looked startled and pale in the moonlight—“’Tana, you won’t need me very long; and when you go away, I’ll never try to make you remember me. Do you understand, little girl? But just now, while we are so far off from the rest of the world, won’t you trust me with your troubles—with the thoughts that worry you? I would give half of my life to help you. Half of it! Ah, good God! all of it! ’Tana—”
In his voice was all the feeling which compels sympathy, or else builds up a wall that bars it out. But in the eyes of the girl, startled though she was, no resistance could be read. Her hand was in his, her face lifted to him, and alight with sudden gladness. In his eyes she 175 read the force of an irresistible power taking possession of a man’s soul and touching her with its glory.
“’Tana!” he said very softly, in a tone she had never before heard Dan Overton use—a tone hushed and reverent and appealing. “’Tana!”
Did he guess all the stormy emotions locked alone in the girl’s heart, and wearing out her strength? Did he guess all the childish longing to feel strong, loving arms around her as a shield? His utterance of her name drew her to him. His arm fell around her shoulders, and her head was bowed against his breast. The hat she wore had fallen to the ground, and as he bent over her, his hand caressed her hair tenderly, but there was more of moody regret than of joy in his face.
“’Tana, my girl! poor little girl!” he said softly.
But she shook her head.
“No—not so poor now,” she half whispered and looked up at him—“not so very poor.”