They were walking along a country lane, and Stainton glanced about nervously, fearing that her words, spoken in a tone altogether unrestrained, would certainly be heard by more ears than his own. The road, however, was empty. He drew her aside to a spot where the woods met the lane and where, a few paces to the left of the lane, the trees hid them. He took her into his arms.
"Muriel," he said, "if I could go through this for you, I would; you know that."
"I know you can't go through it for me," she wept, "and so it's easy enough for you to say."
"No," said Jim, "I can't go through it for you, and so you see, it must be God's will that it should be as it is to be."
She was worn out by the days of worry, but she made one more appeal.
"Jim," she said, "can't you do something else for me?"
He knitted his brows.
"Something else?" he wondered. "I can love you; I can back you up with all the love of my body and brain and soul. You may always count on that, sweetheart."
"But"—her eyes looked straight into his—"can't you do something?"
He understood. He fell back a step, his face grey.