"Here," said David. Both fell to work. David
picked handfuls of berries and cast them gaily into
the pail. "What is your name?" he asked, in an
undertone.
"Jane Waters," she replied, readily. Her hus-
band's name had been Waters, or the man who had
called himself her husband, and her own middle
name was Jane. The first was Sara. David remem-
bered at once. "She is taking her own middle name
and the name of the man she married," he thought.
Then he asked, plucking berries, with his eyes averted:
"Married?"
"No," said the woman, flushing deeply.
David's next question betrayed him. "Husband
dead?"
"I haven't any husband," she replied, like the
Samaritan woman.
She had married a man already provided with
another wife, although she had not known it. The
man was not dead, but she spoke the entire miser-
able truth when she replied as she did. David as-
sumed that he was dead. He felt a throb of relief,
of which he was ashamed, but he could not down it.
He did not know what it was that was so alive and
triumphant within him: love, or pity, or the natural
instinct of the decent male to shelter and protect.
Whatever it was, it was dominant.
"Do you have to work hard?" he asked.
"Pretty hard, I guess. I expect to."
"And you don't get any pay?"
"That's all right; I don't expect to get any,"
said she, and there was bitterness in her voice.
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