asleep from her long exhaustion; but she wasn't sleeping, for presently her pale lips moved a little, and she said in a whisper, "There's nothing for me to do but run away or kill myself . . . and then I'll be out of the way."
He did not tell her at once, without hesitation, that she was contemplating a great sin. He merely kept silent, and, after a time, he murmured, "My poor, poor child . . . my tired child," and then fell once more into silence. They must have remained thus for nearly an hour. Naomi even appeared to fall asleep, and then, starting suddenly, she cried out. His arm ached, but he did not move. He was, it seemed, past such a small discomfort as an aching arm. And he was struggling, struggling passionately, with a terrible temptation, conscious all the while that each minute added to the bitterness of the reproaches that awaited him on opening the parsonage door. It was long after eleven o'clock, and he should have returned ages ago. He thought, "I can't go home now. I can never go home again. I can never open that door again. I would rather die here now. One more time might drive me mad . . . I mightn't know what I was doing . . . I might. . . ."
The free hand again closed over his eyes, as if to shut out the horrible thing that had occurred to him. Naomi had opened her eyes and was looking up at him. For a second he thought, "Has she seen what was in them?"
Her lips moved again. "I don't care what happens to me any longer."
Suddenly, without knowing what he was doing, he bent down and took her in his arms, "Naomi . . .
