Then she spoke quite calmly, in her natural voice, but very slowly:
“Harry, I once dreamed that I was in terrible trouble and that you came and helped me. Are you sure I am not dreaming now?”
“Is it a happy dream, if you are, my darling?”
“I—I don’t know,” faltered Patience. “It is wonderful to be here with—you.”
“Do you trust me, Patience? Do you trust me when I tell you that I care more for you than I ever knew I could care for anybody?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“I want to make you happy. I want to love you and work for you and have you for my wife, and make a home with you.”
“Harry!” She slipped her hand into his.
“Harry, I still feel afraid. It was such a dreadful thing to see. Was that man killed? It was he who asked me to sing. They had been disappointed about getting a singer, he said, and he gave me ten dollars. All that money for a few songs—it seemed like stealing. But I took it. Mother helped put on this dress they gave me to sing in. You know I went there to help mother clean the place. And to think we saw a murder!”
“My poor darling!” Something in his voice caused her to put her hand up to his face. He felt her finger tips on his eyelids, then down his wet cheeks.