In spite of her stoutness she was not as strong as the man. She was not at all strong, and, moreover, the constant presence of a sense of injury at the hands of life filled her very soul with a subtle poison, to her weakening vitality. She was a child hurt and worried and bewildered, although she was to the average eye a stout, able-bodied, middle-aged woman; but David had not the average eye, and he saw her as she really was, not as she seemed. There had always been about her a little weakness and dependency which had appealed to him. Now they seemed fairly to cry out to him like the despairing voices of the children whom he had never had, and he knew he loved her as he had never loved her before, with a love which had budded and flowered and fruited and survived absence and starvation. He spoke abruptly. “I've about got my business done in these parts,” said he. “I've got quite a little money, and I've got a little house, not much, but mighty snug, back where I come from. There's a garden. It's in the woods. Not much passing nor going on.” The woman was looking at him with incredulous, pitiful eyes like a dog's. “I hate much goin' on,” she whispered. “Suppose,” said David, “you take those berries home and pack up your things. Got much?” “All I've got will go in my bag.” “Well, pack up; tell the madam where you live that you're sorry, but you're worn out--” “God knows I am,” cried the woman, with sudden force, “worn out!” “Well, you tell her that, and say you've got another chance, and--” “What do you mean?” cried the woman, and she hung upon his words like a drowning thing. “Mean? Why, what I mean is this. You pack your bag and come to the parson's back there, that white house.” “I know--” “In the mean time I'll see about getting a license, and--” Suddenly the woman set her pail down and clutched him by both hands. “Say you are not married,” she demanded; “say it, swear it!” “Yes, I do swear it,” said David. “You are the only woman I ever asked to marry me. I can support you. We sha'n't be rolling in riches, but we can be comfortable, and--I rather guess I can make you happy.” “You didn't say what your name was,” said the woman. “David Anderson.” The woman looked at him with a strange expression, the expression of one who loves and respects, even reveres, the isolation and secrecy of another soul. She understood, down to the depths of her being she understood. She had lived a hard life, she had her faults, but she was fine enough to comprehend and hold sacred another personality. She was very pale, but she smiled. Then she turned to go. “How long will it take you?” asked David. “About an hour.” “All right. I will meet you in front of the parson's house in an hour. We will go back by train. I have money enough.”