‘Oh, Frank—I mean—’
‘You mean Frank, your own Frank; nothing else to you.’
‘Ought you?’ And as she murmured she looked up. It was the same, but still a certain change was there, almost indescribable, but still to be felt, as if a line of toil and weariness had passed from the cheek. The quiet gray eyes were brighter and more eager, the bearing as if ten years had been taken from the forty, and though Mary did not perceive the details, the dress showing that his mourning had not come from the country town tailor and outfitter, even the soft hat a very different article from that which was wont to replace the well-cherished tall one of Sunday mornings.
‘I had not much time,’ he said, ‘but I thought this would be of the most use,’ and he began clasping on her arm a gold bracelet with a tiny watch on it. ‘I thought you would like best to keep our old ring.’
‘If—if I ought to keep it at all,’ she faltered.
‘Now, Mary, I will not have an afternoon spoilt by any folly of that sort,’ he said.
‘Is it folly? Nay, listen. Should you not get
on far far better without such a poor little stupid thing as I am?’
‘I always thought I was the stupid one.’
‘You—but you are a man.’