Cynthia stared and then dropped her glance to the ground.
“I don't see that it would help in the matter,” she said, awkwardly.
“Well, maybe it wouldn't,” he declared, in despair; “an' I reckon thar are things one woman would tell another woman that she wouldn't speak of to a man.”
“I guess that's so,” said Cynthia, still perplexed over the turn the conversation had taken and yet firm in her determination to say nothing that would involve Mrs. Baker's secret.
“Well, maybe you won't mind it much ef I put it this away,” Pole continued. “Now, remember, you don't have to say yes or no unless you want to. Little sister, I'll put it this away: ef Nelson Floyd was to never come back here again, could you, as—as a good, true woman—could you conscientiously marry another man? Could you with a clear conscience, I mean, before God, ever marry another man? Thar, it's out! Could you?”
Cynthia started. She looked down. She was silent. Her color rose.
“Now, mind,” Pole said, suddenly, “you don't have to answer unless you want to. No man's got a right to hem a weak, excited woman up in a corner and get at her heart's secrets.”
“Would it do any good for you to know that, Mr. Baker?” the girl said, in a low voice.
“I think so, little sister.”
“Well, then”—she turned her face away—“I don't think I'd ever want to marry any other living man.”