“Corydon!” he cried.
“There was only one thing that stopped me. You would have got on without me—”
“Don’t say that, dearest!”
“You would—I know it! I’m only in your way. But oh, my baby! I loved him so, and I couldn’t bear to leave him!”
She clung to him convulsively. “Oh, Thyrsis,” she panted, “think what it meant to me to leave him. He’d have been without a mother all his life! And something might have happened to you, and he’d have had no one to love him at all!”
“Why did you want to do it?” he cried.
“Oh Thyrsis, I’ve suffered so! I’m weary—I’m worn out—I’m sick of the fight. I can’t stand it any more—and what can I do?”
“My poor, poor girl,” he whispered, and pressed her to his heart in a paroxysm of grief. “Oh, my Corydon! My Corydon!”
The horror of the thing overwhelmed him; he began to weep himself—his frame was shaken with tearless, agonizing sobs. What could he do for her, how could he help her?
But already he had helped her; it was not often that she saw him weeping, it was not often she found that she could do something for him. “Thyrsis, do you really want me?” she whispered. “Do you truly love me that much?”