"No, I must see you by yourself," said Stephens. "The wind's high, but it's not so sharp, and if you stand by the door you'll not feel much of it." "You're tired," interrupted Faith. "Ay, no doubt. A man must be tired whose work lies where mine does. They're rough paths along which one has to go to find those poor sinners, and the enemy doesn't make them more easy to those who are searching." "Mother says you'll wear out yourself, and everybody else," Faith said, with a touch of petulance,--"going on so." David was silent for a moment. It was often the case that in the first sweetness of being with her he lost sight of the purpose which had gradually been strengthening in his mind, but such words as these brought it back with a sudden shock. And he knew that to-night he must speak plainly, whatever it cost him. "Your mother is right, dear Faith," he said gently. His speech was often abrupt, and rather fiery than persuasive, but he had a full and mellow voice, and it was at this moment modulated into the tenderest tones. "I've thought it over on my knees, and I know I've been over-hasty in asking you to be my wife. I didn't ought to have done it, and I can never blame myself enough. For you couldn't bear it, any more than I could bear to see it." His voice failed him in these last words, and he held his breath tightly, waiting with an eager faint hope for Faith to make some answer which would show that she would work by his side. She understood what he meant, knowing it was the self-imposed hardships of his life to which he was alluding, and she took the most effectual method of replying by putting up her apron, and beginning to cry piteously. Stephens made one step towards her, but then he suddenly checked himself, though the dim light that came from the kitchen showed his strong features working with agitation. "Why should you be different from other men?" said the girl, sobbing. "There's Jane going to be married, and Mary Bates, and Elizabeth. What's to prevent you and me from settling down quiet like them?" Ah, what? Here was the thought with which he had just done battle presenting itself in a fairer, softer shape. Why should he be the one to leave the brightness and warm glow, and content himself with cold and hunger and weariness? Not of the body only,--that seemed to him as nothing, if Faith might be by his side,--but hunger of the heart. Then, as the longing within him was to him a divine longing, and all that opposed it took the form of the evil one, a sudden anger rushed into his heart against her who was tempting him. "Hush, Faith!" he said in a stern, sorrowful voice, "you are setting yourself against God's work. I have got my hand to the plough, and I cannot look back."