“I am going,” he said presently.
“Going?” she whispered. “Where?”
The organ music deepened.
“Out there,” he gestured briefly to the West. “Out there—among His people.”
“Going?” She could not conceal the tremor of her voice. “Going? Alone?”
He smiled sadly. The sun had set. The gathering darkness hid the suspicious moisture in his gray eyes.
“Yes, alone,” he said. “Did not One greater than I go out alone some nineteen centuries ago?”
“Alone? Alone?” A sob rose in her throat and choked her.
“But before I go,” he said, after a moment, in a voice which he strove in vain to render steady, “I want to tell you—” He paused for a moment, struggling for mastery of his feelings.
“Yes?” she whispered.
“—That I shall never forget you, little girl, as long as I live. Never.” He turned abruptly to depart.
“No, not alone! You shall not go alone!” she stopped him with a sudden cry.
He whirled as if he had been shot.
“What do you mean? What do you mean?” he cried hoarsely.
“Oh, can’t you see! Can’t you see!” She threw out her little hands imploringly, and her voice broke.
“Grace! Grace! Dear heaven, do you mean it!”
“You silly man! Oh, you dear blind foolish boy! Haven’t you known for ages—since the day I first heard you preach at the Murphy Street settlement?”
He crushed her to him in a fierce embrace; her slender body yielded to his touch as he bent over her; and her round arms stole softly across his broad shoulders, around his neck, drawing his dark head to her as he planted hungry kisses on her closed eyes, the column of her throat, the parted petal of her fresh young lips.
“Forever,” he answered solemnly. “So help me God.”
The organ music swelled now into a triumphant pæan, filling with its exultant melody that vast darkness of the church. And as Old
