There was so much of the little boy about him!
VIII
The fierce gust of emotion which swept Don Mike Farrel was of brief
duration. He was too sane, too courageous to permit his grief to
overwhelm him completely; he had the usual masculine horror of an
exhibition of weakness, and although the girl's sweet sympathy and
genuine womanly tenderness had caught him unawares, he was,
nevertheless, not insensible of the incongruity of a grown man weeping
like a child on the shoulder of a young woman--and a strange young
woman at that. With a supreme effort of will, he regained control of
himself as swiftly as he had lost it, and began fumbling for a
handkerchief.
"Here," she murmured; "use mine." She reached up and, with her dainty
wisp of handkerchief, wiped his wet cheeks exactly as if he had been a
child.
He caught the hand that wielded the handkerchief and kissed it
gratefully, reverently.
"God bless your dear, kind heart!" he murmured. "I had thought nobody
could possibly care--that much. So few people--have any interest in
the--unhappiness of others." He essayed a twisted smile. "I'm not
usually this weak," he continued, apologetically. "I never knew until
to-night that I could be such a lubberly big baby, but, then, I wasn't
set for this blow. This afternoon, life executed an about face for
me--and the dogs got me started after I'd promised myself--" He
choked again on the last word.
Pages:
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99