" 'Entreat me not to leave thee,' " he read, " 'or to return from
following after thee, for whither thou goest I will go, and where
thou lodgest I will lodge. Thy people shall be my people, and
thy God my God.' "
He stopped to ponder over the poetry of the lines.
"Kind o' pretty, ain't it?" Polly said softly. She felt awkward
and constrained and a little overawed.
"There are far more beautiful things than that," Douglas assured
her enthusiastically, as the echo of many such rang in his ears.
"There are?" And her eyes opened wide with wonder.
"Yes, indeed," he replied, pitying more and more the starvation
of mind and longing to bring to it floods of light and
enrichment.
"I guess I'd LIKE to hear YOU spiel," and she fell to studying
him solemnly.
"You would?" he asked eagerly.
"Is there any more to that story?" she asked, ignoring his
question.
"Yes, indeed."
"Would you read me a little more?" She was very humble now.
"Where thou diest will I die, and there will I be buried; the
Lord do so to me and more also, if ought but death part me and
thee.' "
Their eyes met. There was a long pause. Suddenly the sharp,
sweet notes of the church bell brought John Douglas to his feet
with a start of surprise.
"Have you got to go?" Polly asked regretfully.
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