“Yes we will, though you're laggard in asking me, sir.”
“But, dear—suppose,” he replied, huskily, “suppose there might be—be children—a boy. A boy with his father's blood!”
“I pray God there will be. I do not fear what you fear. But even so—he'll be half my blood.”
Duane felt the storm rise and break in him. And his terror was that of joy quelling fear. The shining glory of love in this woman's eyes made him weak as a child. How could she love him—how could she so bravely face a future with him? Yet she held him in her arms, twining her hands round his neck, and pressing close to him. Her faith and love and beauty—these she meant to throw between him and all that terrible past. They were her power, and she meant to use them all. He dared not think of accepting her sacrifice.
“But Ray—you dear, noble girl—I'm poor. I have nothing. And I'm a cripple.”
“Oh, you'll be well some day,” she replied. “And listen. I have money. My mother left me well off. All she had was her father's—Do you understand? We'll take Uncle Jim and your mother. We'll go to Louisiana—to my old home. It's far from here. There's a plantation to work. There are horses and cattle—a great cypress forest to cut. Oh, you'll have much to do. You'll forget there. You'll learn to love my home. It's a beautiful old place. There are groves where the gray moss blows all day and the nightingales sing all night.”
“My darling!” cried Duane, brokenly. “No, no, no!”
Yet he knew in his heart that he was yielding to her, that he could not resist her a moment longer. What was this madness of love?
“We'll be happy,” she whispered. “Oh, I know. Come!—come!-come!”
Her eyes were closing, heavy-lidded, and she lifted sweet, tremulous, waiting lips.