THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
The fact is, the idyl was about to be written. He advanced toward her irresolutely.
"What's the matter, sister?"
"Don't you ever call me that again, William Grogan! I … I want my rings."
Mystification resolved into blank stupidity.
"Do you hear me? My rings! … Or don't you want me? Are you going to let me go?"
He started to run his fingers through his hair, but she caught his hand and drew it down, clinging to it.
"And you thought I was going to let you go! Oh, man, man! If you could only see yourself a little as I see you. And if God had made it possible for me to love you as you are worthy to be loved! There is no flame or fire in what I offer you; but I'd give you my heart's blood if you wanted it or needed it. There are some dreams that never come true; and yours and mine are like that. But you are the bravest and kindliest man I have ever known, and I think you'll understand me. And don't think for a moment that it's sacrifice on my part. No. I want you; I couldn't get along without you; and I want to belong. What good there is in me you stirred and brought into life. And once I thought I was superior!"
The blood was rushing into his throat and drumming in his ears. She went on. He hadn't the power to interrupt her.
"I will be a true wife to you, William Grogan. I will work for you and with you, I will try to make you happy, help you in your ambition, be with you
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