"You would have made something of a man!"
She bowed her head mockingly.
"That is man's best compliment to poor, weak woman. But I am content, when I touch the driving hand, now and then."
After a time she added:—
"You will find the way. It is not the last ditch, far from it. A man like you cannot be killed with one blow!"
She had given the warning, done what she could, and now she trusted me to do the rest. Her will, her sympathy, were strong behind me. So when this moment was over, when she went her way and I mine, out into the world of cares and struggle, I might carry with me this bit of her courage, her sureness. I felt that, and I wanted to say it to her, to let her see that it was more herself than her good will or her help that I valued. But it was an awkward thing to say.
Her hands lay upon the desk between us. They were not beautiful hands, merely strong, close-knit—hands to hold with a grip of death. I looked at them, thinking that in her hands was the sign of her character. She raised her eyes and gazed at me steadily for several moments.
"You know how I feel?"
I nodded.
"You don't need a woman's sympathy—but I want you to know how I feel—for my own sake."