“But can you stand tenting out in April?” asked she.
“I’ll chance it,” he replied—“if you’ll say the word.”
She saw that her duty was before her; she must nerve herself and face it, though it tore her heartstrings. She must stay and take care of the baby, while he went away to work!
He sat and held her hands, and saw her bite her lips and fight to keep back the tears in her eyes. Their hearts had grown together, so that it was like tearing their flesh to separate them. They had never imagined that such a thing could come into their lives.
“Thyrsis,” she whispered—“you’ll forget me!”
He pressed her hands more tightly. “No, dear! No!” he said.
“But you’ll get used to living without me!” she cried. “And it’s the time in my life when I need you most!”
“I will stay, dearest, if you say so.”
She exclaimed, “No, no! I must stand it!”
And seeing her grief, his heart breaking with pity, a strange impulse came to Thyrsis. He took her hands in his, and knelt down before her, and began to pray. It had been years since he had thought of prayer, and Corydon had never thought of it in her life. It came from the deeps of him—a few stammering words, simple, almost childish, yet exquisite as music. He prayed that they might have courage to keep up the fight, that they might be able to hold their love before them, that nothing might ever dim their vision of each other. It was a prayer without theology or metaphysics—a prayer to the unknown gods; but it set free the well-spring of tenderness and pity within them; and when he finished Corydon was sobbing upon his shoulder.