Part 36 (2/2)

”So you are coming downstairs to-morrow?” she began. ”We shall give yon a welcome that ought to make any man proud. Mrs. Yocomb is all aglow with her preparations.”

”I wish they wouldn't do so,” I said, in a pained tone. ”I'd much rather slip quietly into my old place as if nothing had happened.”

”I imagined you would feel so, Mr. Morton,” she said gently; ”but so much has happened that you must let them express their abounding grat.i.tude in their own way. It will do them good, and they will be the happier for it.”

”Indeed, Miss Warren, that very word grat.i.tude oppresses me. There is no occasion for their feeling so. Why, Hiram, their man, could not have done less. I merely happened to be here. It's all the other way now. If ever a man was overwhelmed with kindness, I have been. How can I ever repay Mrs. Yocomb?”

”I am equally helpless in that respect; but I'm glad to think that between some of our friends the question of repaying may be forgotten.

I never expect to repay Mrs. Yocomb.”

”Has she done so much for you, also?”

”Yes, more than I can tell you.”

”Well,” I said, trying to laugh, ”if I ever write another paragraph it will be due to her good nursing.”

”That is my chief cause for grat.i.tude,” she said hurriedly, the color deepening again in her cheeks. ”If you hadn't--if--I know of your brave effort to get well, too--she told me.”

”Yes, Miss Warren,” I said quietly, ”I am now doing my best.”

”And you are doing n.o.bly--so n.o.bly that I am tempted to give you a strong proof of friends.h.i.+p; to tell you what I have not told any one except Mrs. Yocomb. I feel as if I had rather you heard it from me than casually from others. It will show how--how I trust you.”

My very heart seemed to stand still, and I think my pallor alarmed her; but feeling that she had gone too far, she continued hurriedly, taking a letter from her pocket:

”I expect my friend to-night. He's been absent, and now writes that he will--”

I shrank involuntarily as if from a blow, and with her face full of distress she stopped abruptly.

Summoning the whole strength of my manhood, I rallied sufficiently to say, in a voice that I knew was unnatural from the stress I was under:

”I congratulate you. I trust you may be very happy.”

”I had hoped--” she began. ”I would be if I saw that you were happy.”

”You are always hoping,” I replied, trying to laugh, ”that I may become sane and rational. Haven't you given that up yet? I shall be very happy to-morrow, and will drink to the health of you both.”

She looked at me very dubiously, and the trouble in her face did not pa.s.s away. ”Let me read to you,” she said abruptly. ”I brought with me Hawthorne's 'Mosses from an Old Manse.' They are not too familiar, I trust?”

”I cannot hear them too often,” I said, nerving myself as if for torture.

She began to read that exquisite little character study, ”The Great Stone Face.” Her voice was sweet and flexible, and varied with the thought as if the words had been set to music. At first I listened with delight to hear my favorite author so perfectly interpreted; but soon, too soon, every syllable added to my sense of unutterable loss.

Possibly she intuitively felt my distress, possibly she saw it as I tried to look as stoical as an Indian chief who is tortured on every side with burning brands. At any rate she stopped, and said hesitatingly:

”You--you do not enjoy my reading.”

With a rather grim smile I replied: ”Nothing but the truth will answer with you. I must admit I do not.”

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