"Mr. Reverend, a true woman would take most of the wounds if—"
"If she were—loved?"
"Yes," she said, and her face was pale.
Before her he drooped, sinking to the earth, and on his knees he gently took her hand. "Toward woman my heart has been dumb, but you have given it a tongue. I love you. You dazzled me and I was afraid to speak—I was afraid that I might be worshipping an idol."
"Oh, not an idol. Oh, not that. No poor heart could be so humble as mine, Mr. Reverend. But strong in its love for you, it accepts your love as a benediction. Oh, if you only knew what I have suffered—"
"But I must not know and you must forget. With me you must begin your life over again."
Upon her hand he pressed a kiss, and no idle eye was there in mockery to gaze upon them and no ear save his own heard her when she said: "And together we will do His work."
"In the vineyard of usefulness. Ma'm, we will go among the stricken and nurse them."
Gentle mischief sometimes sweetens quiet joy. "Then, you haven't come to tell me good-bye," she said, and the light from her eye fell upon his face, leaving there a smile. "Well no, not now," he replied, arising. "But I had spoken for passage in the stage coach and I must go now and tell them not to save the place for me. And when I come back we will go to the mountain-top and view from afar the field of our life's work."
"May I go with you?"