"I have something to say to you before I go, Patty," I said. The words stuck. I knew that there must be no pretence in that speech. It must be true as my life after, the consequence of it. "I have something to ask you, and I do not speak without your father's consent. Patty, if I return, will you be my wife?"
The stocking slipped unheeded to the floor. For a moment she sat transfixed, save for the tumultuous swelling of her breast. Then she turned and gazed earnestly into my face, and the honesty of her eyes smote me. For the first time I could not meet them honestly with my own.
"Richard, do you love me?" she asked.
I bowed my head. I could not answer that. And for a while there was no sound save that of the singing of the frogs in the distant marsh.
Presently I knew that she was standing at my side. I felt her hand laid upon my shoulder.
"Is—is it Dorothy?" she said gently.
Still I could not answer. Truly, the bitterness of life, as the joy of it, is distilled in strong drops.
"I knew," she continued, "I have known ever since that autumn morning when I went to you as you saddled—when I dreaded that you would leave us. Father asked you to marry me, the day you took Mr. Stewart from the mob. How could you so have misunderstood me, Richard?"
I looked up in wonder. The sweet cadence in her tone sprang from a purity not of this earth. They alone who have consecrated their days to others may utter it. And the light upon her face was of the same source. It was no will of mine brought me to my feet. But I was not worthy to touch her.
"I shall make another prayer, beside that for your safety, Richard," she said.