She would listen to his pleading.

It was natural she should have been shocked.

He himself had been moved to sympathy by the sufferer's condition--how much more dreadful, then, must have been the sight of the wounded man lying there among the flower-pots to a woman nurtured so carefully and one so sensitive in spirit! But it was all over--Willits would live--there would be a reconciliation--everything would be forgiven and everything forgotten.
All these thoughts crowded close in his mind as he rushed up the stairs two steps at a time to where his sweetheart lay moaning out her heart.
He tapped lightly and her old black mammy opened the door on a crack.
"It's Marse Harry, mistis," she called back over her shoulder--"shall I let him come in ?" "No!--no!--I don't want to see him; I don't want to see anybody--my heart is broken!" came the reply in half-stifled sobs.
Harry, held at bay, rested his forehead against the edge of the door so his voice could reach her the better.
"But Willits isn't going to die, Kate dear.

I have just left him; it's only a scalp wound.

Dr.Teackle says he's all right.