"Why don't you come to see us, 'Zeki'l?"
"I can't, 'Lizabeth; I can't. It wouldn't be right. Don't you know I've been longin' to come, an' hungerin' an' hungerin' to see you?" He flung himself on the floor at her feet, his face hidden against her knees. "You don't know all! you don't know all!" The words were wrung from him by an almost uncontrollable desire to tell her the story of his sufferings. She had not turned against him nor forgotten him. It was almost more than he could bear, to read in her eyes her faith and her pardon. He felt the touch of her hand on his bared head, and tears gushed from his eyes.
"Can't you tell me?" she whispered, her face, her eyes, illumined by a pity and tenderness divine in their beauty.
"No, honey; it's somethin' I must bear alone, I must bear alone."
He rose to his feet again, brushing his sleeve across his eyes, and she stood up also, leaning on her crutch, the transient glow of color fading from her face.
"You shouldn't bear it alone if I didn't have this lameness. You—"
"Hush!" he said, and, taking her hand, pressed it against his breast. "Do you think your lameness would make any difference? Wouldn't I love you all the more, take care o' you all the better, for it? It's the disgrace, the shame, standin' between us. I'll never outlive it—get rid of it—an' I'll never ask any woman to share it. I couldn't."
Her physical infirmity held her silent. She would be a care and a burden to him rather than a help. She drew up her shawl.
"The Almighty comfort you, 'Zeki'l."
"An' take care o' you, 'Lizabeth."