'Dear Polly, it was her little fingers that set me free—that set both of us free. Coop Kernan Hole would have taught me its lesson too late but for her.'
'What do you mean?' asked Mildred, startled, and trying to get a glimpse of his face; but he had turned it from her; possibly the uncontrolled muscles and the flash of the eye might have warned her without a word.
'What has it taught you?' she repeated, feeling she must get to the bottom of this mystery, whatever it might cost her.
'That it was not Polly whom I loved,' he returned, in a suppressed voice, 'but another whom I might have lost—whom Coop Kernan Hole might have snatched from me. Did you know this, Mildred?'
'No,' she faltered. 'I do not believe it now,' she might have added if breath had not failed her. In her exceeding astonishment, to think such words had blessed her ear, it was impossible—oh, it was impossible—she must hear more.
'I am doubly thankful to it,' he repeated, stooping over her as she sat, that the fall might not drown his voice; 'its dark waters are henceforth glorified to me. Never till that day did I know what you were to me; what a blank my life would be to me without you. It has come to this—that I cannot live without you, Mildred—that you are to me what no other woman, not even Margaret, not even my poor wife, has been to me.'
She buried her face in her trembling hands. Not even to him could she speak, until the pent-up feelings in her heart had resolved themselves into an inward cry, 'My God, for this—for these words—I thank thee!'
He watched her anxiously, as though in doubt of her emotion. Love was making him timid. After all, could he have misunderstood her words? 'Do not speak to me yet. I do not ask it; I do not expect it,' he said, touching her hand to make her look at him. 'You shall give me your answer when you like—to-morrow—a week hence—you shall have time to think of it. By and by I must know what you have for me in return, and whether my blindness and mistake have alienated you, but I will not ask it now.' He moved from her a few steps, and came hurriedly back; but Mildred, still pale from uncontrollable feeling, would not raise her eyes. 'I may be wrong in thinking you cared for me a little. Do you remember what you said? "John, save me!" Mildred, I do not deserve it; I have brought it all on myself, and I will try and be patient; but when you can come to me and say, "John, I love you; I will be your wife," you will remove a mountain-load of doubt and uncertainty. Ah, Mildred, Mildred, will you ever be able to say it?' His emotion, his sensitive doubts, had overmastered him; he was as deadly pale as the woman he wooed. Again he turned away, but this time she stopped him.
'Why need you wait? you must know I——,' but here the soft voice wavered and broke down; but he had heard enough.
'What must I know?—that you love me?'