"Did she?" he asked, lifting his head suddenly. "Honest, Mary? You're
not saying it just to--to make me feel--"
He stopped and waited for her to reply to his unuttered question. She
shook her head.
"Then she does care a little for me. She hasn't lost all the feeling
she used to have--"
"She cried because she was not given a chance to talk with you. She
thought she could comfort you, could help you. That was why she cried,
Tom."
He allowed his chin to rest in his hands, his elbows on his knees.
"I wonder if I could have--Oh, say, there's no use talking," he ended
bitterly.
"What were you about to say, Tom?"
"Nothing."
"Yes, you were. Tell me."
"Oh," he cried, with all the bitterness of a lost, hungry soul, "if I
had only known! She _could_ have comforted me. What a fool I was not to
see her. I've been cursing myself all day. Now I know why I cursed. It
was because I wanted to see her--" He struck himself a violent blow on
the mouth, as if that were all that was needed to crush the great
longing that was in his breast.
"Yes. Go on, Tom," she said quietly.
"I can't, Mary.
Pages:
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567