She had a gesture of humility. “I haven’t anything to give.”
His accent was memorable as he cried, “You have yourself—you—you! But you are too gentle! It is hard for you—it will be too hard for you to do what you feel should be done. I could perhaps do the things if you would tell me—help you not to forget—not to let life make you forget what is worth doing and learning!”
She put back a mesh of her wind-blown hair to look at him intently, and to say again in wonder, “I’m not anything. What can you think I—what can you hope—”
They were standing now on the walk before her father’s house. “I can hope—” his voice shook, “I can hope that you may make me into a man worthy to help you to be the best that’s in you.”
Lydia put out her hand impulsively. It did not tremble. She looked at him with radiant, steady eyes. He raised the slim, gloved fingers to his lips. “Whether to leave you, or to try to—Oh, I would give my life to know how best to serve you,” he said huskily. He turned away, the sound of his steps ringing loud in the silent street.
Lydia went slowly up the walk and into the empty hall. She stood an instant, her hands clasped before her breast, her eyes closed, her face still and clear. Then she moved upstairs like one in a dream.
As she passed her mother’s door she started violently, and for an instant had no breath to answer. Some one had called her name laughingly.
Finally, “Yes,” she answered without stirring.
“Oh, come in, come in!” cried Marietta mockingly. “We know all about everything. We heard you come up the street, and saw you philandering on the front walk. And for all it’s so dark, we made out that Paul kissed your hand when he went away.”
There was a silence in the hall. Then Lydia appeared in the door. Mrs. Emery gave a scream. “Why, Lydia! what makes you look so queer?”