"That may be as you say. Would you prefer to go with us?"
She drew a long breath, slowly, like an indrawn sigh, and something trembled to pass her heart, but suddenly the old habit of reserve sealed her lips and she remained silent.
"What do you say?" he urged.
"Tell me first—do you want me to go?"
He was silent, and they sat waiting for each other. Then he said, "I do want you to go—and yet I don't want you to go—yet. Sometime, of course, we must go where I may find wider scope for my activities." He felt her quiver of anxiety. "Not until you are quite ready yourself, dear, always remember that." Still she was silent, and he continued: "I can't say that I'm quite ready myself. I would prefer one more year here, but Hoyle must be removed without delay. We may have waited too long as it is. Will your mother consent? She must, if she cares to see him live."
"Oh, David! Go, go. Take him and go to-morrow. Leave me here and go—but—come back to me, David, soon—very soon. I—I shall need you, I— Can you leave Hoyle there and come back, David? Or must you bide there, too?" Suddenly she bowed her face in her hands. "Oh, I'm so wicked and selfish to think of leaving him there without you or me or mother—one. David, what can we do? He might die there, and you—you must come back for the winter; what would save him, might kill you. Oh, David! Take me with you, and leave me there with him, and you