She had carried her wound secretly through all those
years.
"Poor Little Miss!" I said in spite of myself, and at this quite
unexpectedly there befell what I had hoped we might both be spared.
I might not soothe her as I would have wished, so I busied myself in the
next room until she called to me. She was putting what touches she could
to her eyes with a small and sadly bedraggled handkerchief.
"There is a better reason for telling no one now," she said, "so we must
destroy this. Mother might see it."
My grate contained its summer accumulation of waste paper. She laid the
picture on this and I lighted the pyre.
"Your mother will see your eyes," I said.
"She has seen them so before." And she gave me her hand, which I kissed.
"Poor Little Miss!" I said, still holding it.
"Not poor now--you have given me back so much. I can believe again--I
can believe almost as much as Jim."
But I released her hand. Though her eyes had not quitted mine, their
look was one of utter friendliness.
CHAPTER XXVII
HOW A TRUCE WAS TROUBLESOME
In the days and nights that followed this interview I associated rather
more than usual with Jim. It seemed well to do so.
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