“How do you mean, take care of me?”
“I mean—marry you, of course.”
“Oh!” said Kedzie. And in a whirlwind of pride she twined her arms about his neck and clung to him with a desperate ardor.
Dyckman said: “This isn't my first proposal, you know. You said you wanted time to think it over. Haven't you thought it over yet?”
“Yes,” Kedzie sighed, but she said no more.
“Well, what's the answer?” he urged.
“Yes.”
She whispered, torn between rapture and despair.
Any woman might have blazed with pride at being asked to marry Jim Dyckman. The little villager was almost consumed like another Semele scorched by Jupiter's rash approach.
In Dyckman's clasp Kedzie felt how lonely she had been. She wanted to be gathered in from the dangers of the world, from poverty and from work. She had not realized how tiny a thing she was, to be combating the big city all alone, until some one offered her shelter.