But she went on, as gravely as before. “Ye're no working man, that I know. And ye're always offering me help! Ye're always sayin' what ye can do for me!” She paused and there came some of the old defiance into her face. “Joe, ye can have no idea of the feelin's that have got hold of me just now. I'm ready to do something desperate; ye'd best be leavin' me alone, Joe!”
“I think I understand, Mary. I would hardly blame you for anything you did.”
She took up his words eagerly. “Wouldn't ye, Joe? Ye're sure? Then what I want is to get the truth from ye. I want ye to talk it out fair!”
“All right, Mary. What is it?”
But her defiance had vanished suddenly. Her eyes dropped, and he saw her fingers picking nervously at a fold of her dress. “About us, Joe,” she said. “I've thought sometimes ye cared for me. I've thought ye liked to be with me—not just because ye were sorry for me, but because of me. I've not been sure, but I can't help thinkin' it's so. Is it?”
“Yes, it is,” he said, a little uncertainly. “I do care for you.”
“Then is it that ye don't care for that other girl all the time?”
“No,” he said, “it's not that.”
“Ye can care for two girls at the same time?”
He did not know what to say. “It would seem that I can, Mary.”