"I thought I was doing right," he confided, after he had told her everything, "but I see now that I was all wrong."
"God will name the day," she declared, simply, "and until He does no man can say 'I will.'"
"Are you quite sure you have acted wisely in showing me my folly? Remember we are poor. Even yet I might make you rich again, for there is time, and—I'm not worth this great sacrifice."
"Sacrifice? This is the day of our triumph, dear. When we had all those other riches we never knew contentment, love, or happiness. Now we can start again, with nothing but ourselves and our children. We won't have time to be unhappy. Are you willing to try with me?"
He stroked her soft hair lovingly and smiled up into her eyes. "DeVoe was right, there is a Power. I shall pray God every day to spare me, sweetheart, for now I want to live."
TOLD IN THE STORM
The front room of the roadhouse was deserted save for the slumbering bartender, back-tilted in a corner, his chin upon his chest, and one other man who sat in the glare of a swing lamp playing solitaire. It was, perhaps, three hours after midnight. The last carouser had turned in. There was no sound save the scream of the black night and the cry of the salt wind. At intervals only, when the storm lulled, there came from the back room the sound of many men asleep.
I stumbled out from the rear room, heavy-eyed, half clad, and of a vicious temper, dressing in sour silence beside the stove.