“It is nothing, what I do,” answered Mrs. Breitmann, and turned away reluctantly, the tears running on her cheeks. “When you go again, I come always, Mrs. Garvin. Ach!”
Her exclamation was caused by the sight of the tall figure and black coat of the rector, and as she left the room, Mrs. Garvin turned. And he noticed in her eyes the same expression of dread they had held when she had protested against his coming.
“Please don't think that I'm not thankful—” she faltered.
“I am not offering you charity,” he said. “Can you not take from other human beings what you have accepted from this woman who has just left?”
“Oh, sir, it isn't that!” she cried, with a look of trust, of appeal that was new, “I would do anything—I will do anything. But my husband—he is so bitter against the church, against ministers! If he came home and found you here—”
“I know—many people feel that way,” he assented, “too many. But you cannot let a prejudice stand in the way of saving the boy's life, Mrs. Garvin.”
“It is more than that. If you knew, sir—”
“Whatever it is,” he interrupted, a little sternly, “it must not interfere. I will talk to your husband.”
She was silent, gazing at him now questioningly, yet with the dawning hope of one whose strength is all but gone, and who has found at last a stronger to lean upon.
The rector took the fan from her arrested hand and began to ply it.