“You’ve been mighty good to me,” she faltered, “and—and made me lots happier; but I—I don’t care in the way you mean.”
[p128]
“Is there anybody else?” demanded Mr. Opp, ready to hurl himself to destruction if she answered in the affirmative.
“Oh, no,” she answered him; “there never has been anybody.”
“‘Why, Mr. Opp, I’m not old enough’”
“Then I’ll take my chance,” said Mr. Opp, expanding his narrow chest. “Whatever I’ve got out of the world I’ve had to fight for. I don’t mind saying to you that I was sorter started out with a handicap. You know my sister—she’s a—well, a’ invalid, you might say, and while her pa was living, my fortunes wasn’t what you might call as favorable as they are at present. I never thought there would be any use in my considering getting married till I met you, then I didn’t seem able somehow to consider nothing else. If you’ll just let me, I’ll wait. I’ll learn you to care. I won’t bother you, but just wait patient as long as you say.” And this from Mr. Opp, whose sands of life were already half-run! “All I ask for,” he went on wistfully, “is a little sign now and then. [p131] You might give me a little look or something just to keep the time from seeming too long.”
It was almost a question, and as he leaned toward her, with the sunlight in his eyes, something of the beauty of the day touched him, too, just as it touched the weed at his feet, making them both for one transcendent moment part of the glory of the world.
Guinevere Gusty, already in love with love, and reaching blindly out for something deeper and finer in her own life, was suddenly engulfed in a wave of sympathy. She involuntarily put out her hand and touched his fingers.
The sun went down behind the distant shore, and the light faded on the river. Mr. Opp was almost afraid to breathe; he sat with his eyes on the far horizon, and that small, slender hand in his, and for the moment the world was fixed in its orbit, and Time itself stood still.