She crept out of her hiding-place, and, coming, gently touched his
tumbled fair hair; but he shrank from her, crying: "Lydia, my girl,
my girl, I am not for a good woman now! I, who thought you an
outcast, a thief, not worthy to be my wife, to-night I am not an
outcast of man alone, but of God."
But what cared she for his official crimes? She was a woman. Her
arms were about him, her lips on his; and he who had, until now,
been a portless derelict, who had vainly sought a haven in art,
an anchorage in the service of God, had drifted at last into the
world's most sheltered harbor--a woman's love.
But, of course, the Bishop took away his gown.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Moccasin Maker, by E. Pauline Johnson
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