"
He whistled, and then he laughed.
"Then we'll not have any books," he said. "I guess they can manage. 'My
only books were woman's looks--'" and then he saw the ball of paper on
the floor and his expression changed. He walked over and picked it up,
smoothing it out on the palm of his hand.
After a minute he looked up at me.
"I haven't been to the shelter-house to-day. They are all right?"
"They're nervous. With everybody walking these days they daren't venture
a nose out of doors."
He was still holding the clipping.
"And--Miss Jennings!" he said. "She--I think she looks better."
"Her father's in a better humor for one thing--says Abraham Lincoln
split logs, and that it beats massage."
I had been standing in the doorway, but he took me by the arm and drew
me into the room.
"I wish you'd sit down for about ten minutes, Minnie," he said. "I guess
every fellow has a time when he's got to tell his troubles to some good
woman--not but that you know mine already. You're as shrewd as you are
kind."
I sat down on the edge of a chair. For all I had had so much to do with
the sanatorium, I never forgot that I was only the spring-house girl. He
threw himself back in his easy chair, with the candle behind him on the
table and his arms above his head.
"It's like this, Minnie," he said. "Mr. Jennings likes the new order of
things and--he's going to stay."
I nodded.
"And I like it here. I want to stay. It's the one thing I've found that
I think I can do.
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