"
"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.
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