“God bless you, sweetheart,” he cried, and kissed her again,—many times. “It's all right now, isn't it? I knew my father would give his consent when he found out what you were.”
The expression of pain which had troubled him crossed her face again, and she put her hand on his shoulder.
“Listen, dearest,” she said, “I love you. I am doing this for you. You must understand that.”
“Why, yes, Cynthia, I understand it—of course I do,” he answered, perplexed. “I understand it, but I don't deserve it.”
“I want you to know,” she continued in a low voice, “that I should have married you anyway. I—I could not have helped it.”
“Cynthia!”
“If you were to go back to the locomotive works' tomorrow, I would marry you.”
“On ninety dollars a month?” exclaimed Bob.
“If you wanted me,” she said.
“Wanted you! I could live in a log cabin with you the rest of my life.”