Her breath came quick, and then with a smile she quieted herself as one resigned to evil news. "Why, you aren't going, are you?"
Standing a few paces from her he hung low his head. "Yes, I thought I'd better cut my stay a little short. My people need me."
As someone far away she saw him, though he was nearer now. "But don't we--don't your uncle need you?"
He was not too big, not awkward now--his hands were not in his way, and thinking not upon how to stand, stood gracefully; and the breeze that came down the creek brought cool perfume from the nestling coves where all the day and the night the wild rose nodded.
"No, ma'm; my work lies away over among the mountains." She turned to walk away from him, but looking up, was closer. "I beg yo' pardon, ma'm, but haven't you got a picture of yo'se'f you would give me?"
"A picture of me? What do you want with it, Mr. Reverend?"
"My cabin is under the hill, and in the winter time it is dark there and I would like to have--have a never-failing lamp to lighten it."
"Oh," and her hands were pressed to her bosom, "You can't mean that."
"Ma'm, I don't joke about sacred things."
"Mr. Reverend--"
"If you would call me Jim one time--just once, I should have something to dream about."
She gestured and he caught her hand. "Please don't," she pleaded, slowly taking her hand away. "Please don't talk that way. You know I told you that you had revived my faith in man, after it had gasped and died. But you spoke a resurrecting word and--"
"But would my dreaming again and again that I had heard you call me Jim--would that kill it again? Honey,--I--I beg your pardon. I am used to talking to children, and I call them by pet names. I beg your pardon."
She looked far away, at the blue water rippling down the hills. "If in your sight I could be as a little child."
"Ma'm, I lead a child, but you could lead me."
"To walk with you, Mr. Reverend, would be along the upward path, toward the sunrise."
"Ma'm, you make me think of Christian when he stood with clasped hands, looking up at the golden city where they sang, 'holy, holy.'"
"How could I make you think of that, Mr. Reverend?"
"Walking with me toward the sunrise. Ah, but the wild briar would tear your dress."
"But haven't the briars torn your flesh?"
He pointed upward. "Ah, and a wound in His service is balm to the soul."
"Mr. Reverend, a true woman would take most of the wounds if--"
"If she were--loved?"
"Yes," she said, and her face was pale.
Before her he drooped, sinking to the earth, and on his knees he gently took her hand. "Toward woman my heart has been dumb, but you have given it a tongue. I love you. You dazzled me and I was afraid to speak--I was afraid that I might be worshipping an idol."
"Oh, not an idol. Oh, not that. No poor heart could be so humble as mine, Mr. Reverend. But strong in its love for you, it accepts your love as a benediction. Oh, if you only knew what I have suffered--"
"But I must not know and you must forget. With me you must begin your life over again."
Upon her hand he pressed a kiss, and no idle eye was there in mockery to gaze upon them and no ear save his own heard her when she said: "And together we will do His work."
"In the vineyard of usefulness. Ma'm, we will go among the stricken and nurse them."
Gentle mischief sometimes sweetens quiet joy. "Then, you haven't come to tell me good-bye," she said, and the light from her eye fell upon his face, leaving there a smile. "Well no, not now," he replied, arising.
"But I had spoken for passage in the stage coach and I must go now and tell them not to save the place for me. And when I come back we will go to the mountain-top and view from afar the field of our life's work."
"May I go with you?"
Now they were slowly walking toward the gap in the yard fence which Old Jasper called the gate.
"The way is short, but it lies over the creek and through the brambles,"
he said, and after a pause, looking fondly into her eyes he added, out of his great store-house of care and sympathy: "The thorns would thirst for your blood."
"They have drunk yours and your thorns shall be mine."
They stood at the gap in the fence. "Yes," he said, "when I have more than I can take care of. The fact is--what shall I call you?"
"Mary," she answered.
"Mary," he repeated. "It is sweet with the memory of many a home and hallowed by the Christian's hope. And, Mary, when I come back I will bring a preacher and a paper from the law. You understand?"
"Yes, I understand, and the understanding is beautiful and precious."
She stood so near and he was so lost--so near that her lips were close to his and he kissed her and started as if the earth had shaken beneath his feet.
"And--and now, Mary, I won't have to beg your pardon when I call you by pet names."
"No, Jim."
"And we will surprise them, Mary."
"Yes, Jim."
He kissed her again and hastened down the road. She looked after him until his head sank down behind a hill, and then for a long time she stood there, leaning upon the fence, and suddenly, with her hands clasped, she cried: "Oh, miracles were wrought in the wilderness."
CHAPTER XVI.
THE APPOINTMENT COMES.
While she was still standing there, musing over her happiness, Lije Peters, peering about, came into the yard. He cleared his throat and she looked at him, and moving further off, she sat down in a rocking-chair which she had brought from the house earlier in the day. With a show of respect Peters took off his hat.
"Howdy do, ma'm? I don't believe you an' me air very well acquainted."