“Yes, it is the Power, the power and goodness of God.” And she whispered in blissful axents, “It is Richard, Richard redeemed and working for my Master.”
I see it all, it wuz the lost lover of her youth, I read it in her face. You could have knocked me down with a clothes-pin aimed by a infant.
“How come he here?” sez I in a onbelievin’ way.
“God sent him!” She whispered. “He sent this blessedness to me, to know his soul is saved, that he is working for Him.”
That afternoon they met under a ellum tree. He’d found out she wuz there, and asked for a interview, which I see that she granted him. It wuz a pretty spot, clost to the water, with trees of droopin’ ellums and some maples, and popples touched with fire and gold. The autumn leaves made a sort of canopy over their heads, and all round ’em wuz the soft melancholy quiet of the fall of the year. He stood there waitin’ for her.
“Faith!”
“Richard!”
I don’t know how long they stood there, her little cold hands held in his big warm palms, his eyes searchin’ the dear face and findin’ a sacred meanin’ in it, and she in hisen. He wuz pale, his voice trembled like the popple leaves overhead, and visey versey hern.