And when at last she began to
sob--sobbing as he had never heard any one sob before--all his heart was
roused for her, and he patted her head, kissed her hair, whispering:
"Little one, little one, don't. We'll bear it together--some way."
During that hour she never loosened her arms about his neck. Deep in his
despairing heart there glowed one warm spark. Ernestine would cling to
him as she had never done before. God had not gone out of the world then.
He had let fate strike a fearful blow, but He had left to the wounded
heart such love as this.
"Dear," she said at last, her cheek against his, her dear, quivering
voice trying so hard to be brave, "if you feel like telling me
everything, I would like to know. I will be quiet. I will be good. But I
want to bear every bit of it with you. Every bit of it, darling--now, and
always. That is all I ask--that you let me bear it with you."
The love, the understanding, the longing to help, which were in her voice
opened that innermost chamber of his heart to her.
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