"Yes, Tom."
"Oh!" He turned and flung himself on the bench, bursting into tears.
"I don't deserve it--I don't deserve it! It's too much to hope for."
These and other sentences fell in broken disorder from his lips.
She did not speak, but sat down beside him, laying her hand on his
shoulder. After a time, he grew quieter,--then almost deathly still.
She shook him gently.
"Will you come home with me now, Tom?" she asked. She too had been
crying softly.
He looked up. They were so close together that she could detect the
humble, wistful look in his face. His lips moved, but the words did
not come at once.
"Home with you?"
"Yes. We have our plans to discuss, Tom."
"To your father's house?" he persisted.
"Yes. He understands. I talked it all over with him this afternoon. It
was hard to do, Tom,--it was very hard to hurt that poor old man all
over again. But I had it to do, and he understands. He asked me to
bring you back with me. I told him I would. He wants to talk with you
in the morning."
"Mary," he began, fingering his hat in the extremity of an emotion
that almost benumbed him, "I don't know whether you want to hear me
say it, but I've never stopped caring for you.
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