Part 17 (1/2)

”I wonder,” I said, ”if it's asking too much of you to listen to me for awhile. I had a miserable time of it, as a boy, and now and then it sits on me so hard I like to speak to a friend for comfort.”

It was the surest way to claim her time. She caught my hand.

”Certainly,” she said. ”If you only knew, Will, how anxious I am to be of some real service in this world, instead of being told that I'm--”

”Let it go!” I put in. ”That you're good to look at, and so forth?”

She nodded. ”I don't mean that I'm so lofty-minded that I don't like it sometimes, yet I mustn't grow to like it and--”

”For my part I'm glad there's some beauty in this little old world,”

said I. ”I love to trig myself out as you see--give the folks a treat.

Honest, I can't see the harm in brightening up the landscape all you're able. But, though I ain't much of a professional beauty, I can understand that too much sugar leads to seasickness.”

”You're as handsome a young man as a young man should be!” says Mary, indignant. ”Don't attempt a foolish modesty. I wish I were strong, and six-foot-three, and a man!”

”Throw in the red hair?”

”You have beautiful hair! I believe you know it, you vain boy, and let it grow purposely. And now you're just leading me to sound your praises!”

I laughed. ”I'd stick at nothing, for that,” I answered. ”Oh, why ain't I ten years older! I'd have you out of here in a minute!”

”I believe you would,” she said; ”I don't believe you'd care for my protests nor prayers nor tears. You'd just selfishly pick me right up and walk away with me and bully me for the rest of my days!”

”Just that--Heavens! But I'd make it awful for you! Captain Jesse would be a lambkin beside me!”

We both laughed, thinking of Jesse the Terrible.

”The dear old _Matilda_!” she said,--almost whispered,--and her eyes grew softer.

”Happy times, weren't they? And coming after what I'd left--” I shook my head.

”Tell me, Will.”

”I've wondered how much was my not understanding,” I went on, ”and how much I had to kick about. I suppose if I was older, I'd be like Sax--keep my troubles to myself--but I haven't learned how, yet. Still, I don't want to spoil your morning.”

She frowned a little at Saxton's name, not an ill-tempered, but a thoughtful frown, as a new idea struck her. She put it away from her, and turned.

”That you should come to me, Will, is a high compliment. I know you're not the kind to give your woes to the world. If--” she smiled at me, ”if you won't think it heartless of me, I'll say I'll enjoy hearing 'em.”

”I understand,” I answered; ”just as, in a way, I'll enjoy telling them.

Well, here we go.”

So I put the facts to her as fair and calm as I could, patterning after Saxton's method. I hadn't his nerve; gradually heat swept into my discourse. I forgot where I was and who I was talking to, as the old wrongs boiled up.

When I finished I remembered, and sat back.

Mary was also still.

I rolled a cigarette and played for airiness. ”Of course,” I said, ”it's all in a lifetime.”

She put her hand on mine. ”Don't,” she said, ”don't.”