"Give me your hand." He gave it to her.
"I mortified you; and you have saved me." She took his hand, and, holding it gently in both her little palms, sobbed out,--"Oh, think of something I can do, to show my gratitude, my esteem.

Pray, pray, pray." "Wait two years for me." "Oh, not that.

I don't mean that." "That or nothing.

In two years, I'll be as good a gentleman as HE is.
I'm not risking my life in that church, for nothing.

If you have one grain of pity or esteem for me, wait two years." "Incurable!" she murmured: but he was gone.
Coventry heard the prayer.