"I understand now why you have been so shy of me," Morris said. "It was only natural you should be until you knew what my intentions were; but, Katy, must this shyness continue always? Think now, and say if you did not tell more than one falsehood the other night, as you count falsehoods."
Katy looked wonderingly at him, and he continued;
"You said you could not be my wife. Was that true? Can't you take it back, and give me a different answer?"
Katy's checks were scarlet, and her hands had ceased to flutter about the knitting which lay upon her lap.
"I meant what I said," she whispered; "for knowing, as I do, how Wilford felt, it would not be right for me to be so happy."
"Then it's nothing personal? If there were no harrowing memories of Wilford, you could be happy with me. Is that it, Katy?" Morris asked, coming close to her now, and imprisoning her hands, which she did not try to take away, but let them lie in his as he continued: "Wilford was willing at the last. Have you forgotten that?"
"I had, until Helen reminded me." Katy replied. "But, Morris, the talking of this thing brings Wilford's death back so vividly, making it seem but yesterday since I held his dying head."
She was beginning to relent, Morris knew, and bending nearer to her, he said:
"It was not yesterday. It will be two years in February; and this, you know, is November. I need you, Katy. I want you so much. I have wanted you all your life. Before it was wrong to do so I used each day to pray that God would give you to me, and now I feel just as sure that he has opened the way for you to come to me as I am sure that Wilford is in heaven. He is happy there, and shall a morbid fancy keep you from being happy here? Tell me then, Katy, will you be my wife?"
He was kissing her cold hands, and as he did so he felt her tears dropping on his hair.