“It’s quite true,” he murmured, “I am poor.”
She led him to the lounge and made him sit down by her. He waited for her to speak, but she remained silent, her eyes fixed on her frail hands, ringless—tears forced themselves under her eyelids, but she kept them back.
“I guess,” she said in a veiled tone, “you’ve no idea all I’ve been through, Dan, since I stood there in the church choir.”
American though he was, and down on foreign customs—he wouldn’t fight a duel—he got down on his knees and put his arms around her from there.
“I know what you are, all right, Letty. You are an angel.”
She gave way and burst into tears and hid her face on his shoulder, and sobbed.
“I believe you do—I believe you do. You’ve saved my soul and my life. I’ll go with you—I’ll go—I’ll go!”
Later she told him how she would learn to cook and sew, and that together they would stand in the door of their shack at sunset, or that she would stand and watch for him to come home; and, the actress in her strong, she sprang up for a minute and stood shielding her eyes with her slender hand to show him how. And he gazed, charmed at her, and drew her back to him again.
“You’ve made dad’s words come true.” Dan wouldn’t tell her what they were—he said she wouldn’t understand. “I nearly had to die to learn them myself,” he said.