I perceived that Poor Jr. turned his face abruptly toward hers at this, but he said nothing, by which I understood not only his wisdom but his forbearance.
“Strangely enough,” she went on, slowly, “that song reminded me of something in Paris. Do you remember”—she turned to Poor Jr.—“that poor man we saw in front of the Cafe’ de la Paix with the sign painted upon his head?”
Ah, the good-night, with its friendly cloak! The good, kind night!
“I remember,” he answered, with some shortness. “A little faster, boatman!”
“I don’t know what made it,” she said, “I can’t account for it, but I’ve been thinking of him all through that last song.”
Perhaps not so strange, since one may know how wildly that poor devil had been thinking of her!
“I’ve thought of him so often,” the gentle voice went on. “I felt so sorry for him. I never felt sorrier for any one in my life. I was sorry for the poor, thin cab-horses in Paris, but I was sorrier for him. I think it was the saddest sight I ever saw. Do you suppose he still has to do that, Rufus?”
“No, no,” he answered, in haste. “He’d stopped before I left. He’s all right, I imagine. Here’s the Danieli.”
She fastened a shawl more closely about her mother, whom I, with a ringing in my ears, was trying to help up the stone steps. “Rufus, I hope,” the sweet voice continued, so gently,—“I hope he’s found something to do that’s very grand! Don’t you? Something to make up to him for doing that!”
She had not the faintest dream that it was I. It was just her beautiful heart.