"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.