“I can't say it now,” Polly murmured. Her face was averted; her white lids fluttered and closed.
“Nonsense, of course you can. Come, come, I'll help you.” Douglas spoke sharply. He was almost vexed with her and with himself for the weakness that was so near overcoming them. “And Ruth said, 'Entreat me not to leave thee——'”
“'Or to return from following after thee.'” She was struggling to keep back the tears. “'For whither thou goest, I will go, and where thou lodgest, I will lodge. Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my' “—She stopped.
“That's right, go on,” said Douglas, striving to control the unsteadiness in his own voice.
“Where thou diest, will I die'”—her arms went out blindly.
“Oh, you won't send me away, will you?” she sobbed. “I don't want to learn anything else just—except—from you.” She covered her face and slipped, a little, broken heap at his feet.
In an instant the pastor's strong arms were about her, his stalwart body was supporting her. “You shan't go away. I won't let you—I won't! Do you hear me, Polly? I won't!”
Her breath was warm against his cheek. He could feel her tears, her arms about him, as she clung to him helplessly, sobbing and quivering in the shelter of his strong embrace. “You are never going to leave me—never!”
A new purpose had come into his life, the realisation of a new necessity, and he knew that the fight which he must henceforth make for this child was the same that he must make for himself.