Benedict bade Miss Butterworth “good-night,” but, as he was passing out of the room, Jim remembered that there was something that he wished to say to him, and so passed out with him, telling Miss Butterworth that he should soon return.

When the door closed behind them, and they stood alone in the darkness, Jim said, with his hand on his companion’s shoulder, and an awful lie in his throat: 

“I brung ye here hopin’ ye’d take a notion to this little woman.  She’d do more for ye nor anybody else.  She can make yer clo’es, and be good company for ye, an’—­”

“And provide for me.  No, that won’t do, Jim.”

“Well, you’d better think on’t.”

“No, Jim, I shall never marry again.”

“Now’s yer time.  Nobody knows what’ll happen afore mornin’.”

“I understand you, Jim,” said Mr. Benedict, “and I know what all this costs you.  You are worthy of her, and I hope you’ll get her.”

Mr. Benedict tore himself away, but Jim said, “hold on a bit.”

Benedict turned, and then Jim inquired: 

“Have ye got a piece of Indian rubber?”

“Yes.”

“Then jest rub out the picter of the little feller in front of the stoop, an’ put in Turk.  If so be as somethin’ happens to-night, I sh’d want to show her the plans in the mornin’; an’ if she should ax me whose little feller it was, it would be sort o’ cumbersome to tell her, an’ I sh’d have to lie my way out on’t.”

Mr. Benedict promised to attend to the matter before he slept, and then
Jim went back into the house.

Of the long conversation that took place that night between the woodsman and the little tailoress we shall present no record.  That he pleaded his case well and earnestly, and without a great deal of bashfulness, will be readily believed by those who have made his acquaintance.  That the woman, in her lonely circumstances, and with her hungry heart, could lightly refuse the offer of his hand and life was an impossibility.  From the hour of his last previous visit she had unconsciously gone toward him in her affections, and when she met him she learned, quite to her own surprise, that her heart had found its home.  He had no culture, but his nature was manly.  He had little education, but his heart was true, and his arm was strong.  Compared with Mr. Belcher, with all his wealth, he was nobility personified.  Compared with the sordid men around her, with whom he would be an object of supercilious contempt, he seemed like a demigod.  His eccentricities, his generosities, his originalities of thought and fancy, were a feast to her.  There was more of him than she could find in any of her acquaintances—­more that was fresh, piquant, stimulating, and vitally appetizing.  Having once come into contact with him, the influence of his presence had remained, and it was with a genuine throb of pleasure that she found herself with him again.

When he left her that night, he left her in tears.  Bending over her, with his strong hands holding her cheeks tenderly, as she looked up into his eyes, he kissed her forehead.