"Teacher, you've got a woman's heart, and you can save that other woman! It's a task that they needn't nobody be ashamed on, for the Lord Jesus himself set the example. I guess she thinks you've turned agin her, too, but I knew that couldn't be, for no friend 'ud leave another when they was perishin', not even if they was more to fault than she was; and she was apt to mind ye more than any one. I thought if you'd go in and speak to her as a woman could, and tell her she'd got a right to hope, and tell her her friends would not forsake her, least of all would it be likely God would forsake her, and tell her—"
George Olver seemed both to be looking at me and beyond me with his beautiful, brave eyes; "Tell her thar's somebody that don't find any cause to be sorry for havin' loved her, but knows how she's been werrited, and suffers along with her, and 'ud be more glad and content than of anythin' else in his heart this minute, to protect her and keer for her as it's right—yes, tell her as it's right that she should let him do; and if she asks from whom that comes"—George Olver smiled brightly, with that far-seeing look still in his eyes—"why, it's no secret from whom it comes. Will you go, teacher?"
"Yes," said I, with a vague sense of having caught a glimpse of a hitherto unknown world; "I will go."
George Olver came forward, gave my hand a firm grasp, and then turned resolutely and walked out.
Left to myself and my own thoughts, I dreaded more and more the concession there would seem to be in my seeking Rebecca now, for the poor girl could hardly be expected, I thought, to appreciate the magnanimity of such an act.
I deferred going to see her until evening, and even thought of writing a letter instead of going at all, signifying my willingness to take her back into my favor, in a limited sort of way, and reinforcing her with a share of that counsel and advice which she must have missed so sadly of late; but I was conscious of the fact that I should not thus be keeping my promise to George Olver.
After supper, the singers came in and wailed some peculiarly touching songs about rescuing the fallen and the erring. As Grandma Keeler was preparing to go on an errand of mercy down the lane, I joined her, and stopped at Bede Weir's door.
Aunt Patty, Rebecca's mother, appeared in answer to my knock. Her glances had fallen rather reproachfully on me, of late. Seeing me now, she cast down her eyes, a steely expression gathering about her mouth.
"You've come too late, teacher," said she, her voice breaking suddenly into a sob as she lifted her apron to her eyes.
In that instant it flashed through my mind,—the fear George Olver had expressed lest Rebecca should make away with herself. I fancied that I turned terribly pale.