“Mr. Pearson,” she said, “papa has explained it all to us, and—well, I guess I am too happy to lay up anything against you to-day.”
Pearson took her hand. He choked a little, but found nothing to say. Then Delbert, the little, slender, nervous, eager lad, stood there, tall as his sister, straight and strong, and his clear eyes were steady and stern.
“Marion is of a pretty forgiving disposition,” and his voice was cold and held scorn. “I think myself—”
But Pearson reached out and gripped the hand the boy had not offered him, and found his voice.
“Young man,” he said, “I am so all-fired glad to see you that I don’t care a red cent what you think!”
Marian laid a gentle hand on her brother’s arm.
“O Delbert,” she said softly, “not to-day, dear, not with papa here to take us all back safe to mamma. Besides,—it isn’t a parallel case, I know,—but suppose Davie had died that day he fell!”
Delbert looked from her face, tremulous with joy, back to Pearson’s, and, remembering that terrible day that he had been in some small measure to blame for, he suddenly understood, understood something of what the man in front of him probably had been suffering.
His face softened, and he returned the pressure of the other’s hand.
“All right!” he said boyishly. “I guess what Marian says goes. You will have to fight it out with Mr. Cunningham about the launch, but come on up to dinner now. Say,” he continued with a wistful eye on the pile of things from the launch, “you got anything to eat in those?—any bread or crackers?”