"Thunder!" he said, laughing, "How quickly we've changed places!"

"Oh, oh!" she moaned, "It's a terrible wound; it might have killed you, and
they WILL kill you yet."

He took her hands and held them firmly. "Alida," he said, gravely yet kindly,
"be still and listen to me."

For a moment or two longer her bosom heaved with convulsive sobs, and then she
grew quiet. "Don't you know you can't go away?" he asked, still retaining her
hands and looking in her face.

"I could for your sake," she began.

"No, it wouldn't be for my sake. I don't wish you to go, and wouldn't let
you. If you should let the Oakville rabble drive you away, I WOULD be in
danger, and so would others, for I'd be worse on 'em than an earthquake.
After the lesson they've had tonight, they'll let us alone, and I'll let them
alone. You know I've tried to be honest with you from the first. Believe me,
then, the trouble's over unless we make more for ourselves. Now, promise
you'll do as I say and let me manage."

"I'll try," she breathed softly.

"No, no! That won't do. I'm beginning to find you out. You may get some
foolish, self-sacrificing notion in your head that it would be best for me,
when it would be my ruination. Will you promise?"

"Yes."