She was deeply
excited, without being at all nervous, the excitement being so
profoundly rooted as to be really a part of herself.
"Why am I happy?" she asked herself. "No, not because I've buried all my
pride. Because I've found a reason to justify me in burying it: that's
why!"
She went, for the third time that night, to Bressant's door, and this
time turned the latch and pushed it open. He was sitting at his table,
with his head on his arms. His trunk and a large iron-bound box lay
packed and strapped beneath the window, which was thrown wide open. The
rush of air between that and the door roused the young man: he got
slowly to his feet, and came forward.
"I don't want to see you," said he, with a heavy utterance. "I warn you
to go away. You and I had better have nothing to say to each other."
"We must; the time to speak has come!" she returned. "I've come to you,
because you could not bring yourself to rely on me. It's your own want
of faith--"
"You'd better not go on," interrupted Bressant, with a strange smile. "I
had more faith than you imagine. But there are some mountains that faith
can't move."
"Why do you still keep me off?" cried Abbie, in a tone which might have
made his heart bleed, except that of late it had been stabbed so often.
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