She raised her face now, and the bright sunlight showed it to him white and strained. She was paying for her love, if ever woman was. It went to his heart to see her quivering lips, to read in her eyes that voiceless appeal to him, not to tempt her beyond her strength.
“My poor little girl!”
He put out his arms and drew her close to his breast again, and at the sound of his voice, at the tender touch of his hands, she broke down—broke down and cried passionately with her face hidden on his shoulder. He pushed back her hat, and some strands of her hair fell loose across his hand. He held it lightly and tenderly, noting how it shone in the sunlight, noting that it looked like spun gold.
“Don’t cry like that, my darling, it breaks my heart to hear you.”
But he knew there was no hope for him in those tears. There was resignation, heartbroken resignation to the inevitable, but not a touch of yielding, not a spark of hope for him.
“My poor little girl!” he said again. “My poor little girl!”
“It is my poor boy, I think,” she sobbed, “if you care, my poor, poor Ben!”
She was so close and yet so far, so very far away from him.
“Susy, child, I can’t bear this,” his voice was hoarse with the passion that now he could not keep under control, “you must let me go—now.”
She raised her face and looked with her tear-dimmed eyes straight into his.