He told it wholly without animation, the fruits of success as ashes upon his lips, only a dull hopelessness in his haggard face as he looked full in renunciation of her.
She moved a little nearer him, eyes holding his own in solemn questioning.
"What did it say—the letter—out there?" She waved her hand toward the pavement.
"What I have just told you—that I loved you too much to drag you through—what I will have to bear. I begged you to forgive—and forget—a cur."
"Micky,—do you want—to go—alone?"
He had to bend his head to catch the whispered words, though the beautiful eyes gazed in divine fearlessness straight into his own, searching his shadowed, storm-swept soul. A breathless moment his brain groped for her meaning, grasped it with incredulous joy. The hot blood pounded in his veins, his eyes implored while fearing her.
"Oh, girl, you don't mean—Ah, you don't know what you're saying. No! I'm a dog—a dog—I'm not fit—"
Their hands entwined, her clasp tightened upon his trembling fingers. His halting words died in his throat, he only watched her mutely, his face a queer mixture of misery and joy. Her wet eyes, twin load-stars lighting the path to Eden, smiled into his own.
"Listen!" she said. "Where you go—I'll go—whatever comes—I'm with you—clear to the white stone and the cross—and beyond—for _I love you—I love you_!"
He reeled where he stood. Ah, this love of woman, this grace of the gray world that makes for the glory of God!