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