"Where?"
"It doesn't matter. To New York if necessary. Jump up!" He turned to the
horse, holding the girl close.
"Me go away--in this? Me shame you before--them-all?"
Nella-Rose stood her ground and throwing the rough coat back displayed
her shabby, shrunken dress.
"I went home--they-all were away. I got my warm things, but I have a
white dress and a pink ribbon--I'll get them to-morrow. Then--But why
must we go--away?"
For the first time this thought caught her--she had been whirled along
too rapidly before to note it.
"I have had word that my uncle is dead. I must go at once, my dear, and
you--you must come with me. Would you let a little thing like a--a dress
weigh against our love, and honour?"
Above the native's horror of being dragged from her moorings was that
subtle understanding of honour that had come to Nella-Rose by devious
ways from a source that held it sacred.
"Honour?" she repeated softly; "honour? If I thought I had to go in rags
to make you sure; if I thought I needed to--I'd--"
Truedale saw his mistake. Realizing that if in the little time yet his
he made her comprehend, he might lose more than he could hope to gain,
he let her free while he took a card and pen from his pocket. He wrote
clearly and exactly his address, giving his uncle's home as his.
"Nella-Rose," he said calmly, "I shall be back in two or three weeks at
the latest, but if at any moment you want me, send word here--telegraph
from the station--_you_ come first, always! You are wiser than I, my
sweet; our honour and love are our own.
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