She came to him and stood over him with her hands upon his shoulders.
"Must you, dear?" she said. "Can't you reconcile it to yourself--to go
on with your work of mercy, of saving poor folks' lives?"
He raised his eyes to hers. The shadow that, to her fancy, had always
rested there seemed to have departed. A light had come to them.
"There are more important things than saving men's bodies. You think
that, don't you?" he asked.
"Yes," she answered. "I won't try to hold you back, dear, if you think
you can do that."
He caught her hands and held them.
"I wanted to be a coward," he said, "to keep out of the fight. I thought
of the shame, of the petty persecutions--that even you might despise me.
But I couldn't. I was always seeing His face before me with His
beautiful tender eyes, and the blood drops on His brow. It is He alone
can save the world. It is perishing for want of love; and by a little
suffering I might be able to help Him. And then one night--I suppose it
was a piece of driftwood--there rose up out of the sea a little cross
that seemed to call to me to stretch out my hand and grasp it, and gird
it to my side.
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