Always.  He should have her always!  It was no sentence for a month or a year, but for life.  She was tying herself to this boy until death should free her. ...  She looked at him, and thanked God that he was as he was, young, decent, clean, capable of loving her and cherishing her. ...  For her sake she was glad it was he, but his very attributes accused her.  She was accepting these beautiful gifts and was giving in return spurious wares.  For love she would give pretense of love. ...  Yet if he had been other than he was, if he had been old, seeking her youth as some men might seek it, steeped in experience to satiety as some rich man might have been, she knew she could not have gone through with it.  To such a man she could not have given herself—­even for the Cause. ...  Bonbright made his own duping a possibility.

“I—­I sha’n’t act this way again,” she said, trying to smile.  “You needn’t be afraid. ...  It’s just nerves.”

“Poor kid!” he said, softly, but even yet he dared not touch her.

“You want me?  You’re very, very sure you want me?  How do you know?  I may not be what you think I am.  Maybe I’m different.  Are you sure, Bonbright?”

“It’s the only thing in the world I am sure of,” he said.

“And you’ll be good to me?...  You’ll be patient with me, and gentle?  Oh, I needn’t ask.  I know you will.  I know you’re good. ...”

“I love you,” was his reply, and she deemed it a sufficient answer.

“Then,” she said, “let’s not wait.  There’s no need to wait, is there? 
Can’t it be right away?”

His face grew radiant.  “You mean it, Ruth?”

“Yes,” she said.

“A month?”

“Sooner.”

“A week?”

“Sooner. ...  Sooner.”

“To-morrow?  You couldn’t?...  You don’t mean—­to-morrow?”

She nodded, for she was unable to speak

“Sweetheart,” he cried, and again held out his arms.

She shook her head and drew back.  “It’s been so—­so quick,” she said.  “And to-morrow comes so soon. ...  Not till then.  I’ll be your wife then—­your wife.”

“To-morrow morning?  I will come to-morrow morning?  Can it be then?”

“Yes.”

“I—­I will see to everything.  We’ll be married, and then we will go away—­somewhere.  Where would you like to go, Ruth?”

“Anywhere. ...  I don’t care.  Anywhere.”

“It ’ll be my secret,” he said, in his young blindness.  “We’ll start out—­and you won’t know where we’re going.  I sha’n’t tell you.  I’ll pick out the best place in the world, if I can find it, and you won’t know where we’re going till we get there. ...  Won’t that be bully?...  I hate to go now, dear, but you’re all out of sorts—­and I’ll have a heap of things to do—­to get ready.  So will you.”  He stopped and looked at her pleadingly, but she could not give him what his eyes asked; she could not give him her lips to-night. ...  He waited a moment, then, very gently, he took her hand and touched it with his lips.