Hall and sending the gaping boy who came, for Maiden.
“An’ you’ll not tell her nuthin’,” commanded Steve, standing gaunt and ragged without the light shaft. “Jes’ ask her ter come a minit. Yer hear?”
The boy fled, and Murray spoke under the throb of the music:
“Plunk it straight, Steve. Let her know that you love her. It’ll be all right, man.”
“You think everything’s all right ’cause young Art ain’t dead,” said Steve bitterly. “I got ter tell her ’cause I seed him last. An’—what will she say ter me?”
Murray went away swiftly as Maiden came out to say it. The flowers on her white dress were crushed; but the brightness was on her cheeks yet, and in her eyes. Steve spoke out of the dark, sick at remembering all that had gone by in the few hours since he saw her last.
“There’s bin a big fire,” he said; “a big fire. I comed back—we ain’t all on us comed back, Maiden.”
Maiden had stood in the door, panting, the smile yet on her lips. At his voice she moved suddenly, her hands shut close on each other.
“Steve—you’re hurt! Steve, what are you speakin’ that way fur? Steve———”
“I’m bringin’ yer bad news, Maiden,” said Steve, slowly.
