"Well," said Mary Warren, her blood high in her face, "I'll have to tell her all about that, won't I? I'll write to her at once." "You'll write to her? What?" --"And tell her how happy I am, how fortunate I've been. I'll tell her how you took me in even though I was blind; how you saved my life; how kind and gentle you've been all along, where you might have been so different! I'll tell her how fine and splendid it's been of you to take care of a sick, blind, helpless girl like me; and to--to--give her a man's protection." He was speechless. She struggled on, red to the hair. "You don't know women, how much they want a strong man to depend on, Mr. Gage; a man like you. Chivalrous? Why, yes, you've been all of that and more. I'll write to Annie and tell her that I'm very happy, and that I've got the very best--the very best--_husband_--in all the world. I'll tell her that? I'll say that--that my _husband_----" He heard her sobbing. He could endure no more. Suddenly he reached out a hand and touched hers very gently. "Don't, ma'am," said he. "Fer God's sake don't cry." It was some time after that--neither could have told how long--that he managed to go on, his voice trembling. "Do you _mean_ that, ma'am? Do you mean that, real and for sure? You wouldn't joke with a feller like over a thing like that?" "I'm not joking," said she. "My God! Yes, I mean it." His hand, broad, coarse, thick-fingered, patted hers a hundred times as it lay upon the blankets, until she got nervous over his nervousness. "It's too bad I ain't got no linen sheets," said he suddenly. "But them blankets is eleven-pound four-points, at that. Of course, you know, ma'am," said he, turning towards her, his voice broken, his own vague eyes wet all at once, "you _do_ know I only want to do whatever is the best fer you, now don't you?" "Of course. I do believe that." "And it _couldn't_ run on this way very long. Even Mrs. Jensen wouldn't stay very long. Nobody would come. They'd like enough tar and feather you and me, people in this Valley, if we _wasn't_ married. And yet you say you've got no place to go back to. You talk like you was going to tell her, Annie Squires, that you was married. She supposes it _now_, like enough. If there was any way, shape or manner you could get out of marrying me, why of course I wouldn't let you. But what else is there we can do?" "Some time it would come to that," said Mary Warren, trying to dry her eyes. "It's the only way fair to us both."