“Did you forget something, Rafael?” she asked, recognizing her favorite pupil.
Rafael muttered something unintelligible and hurried off, but his return was explained when Eleanor found a neatly folded note tucked in the sleeve of her coat.
“Der Mis”—it began, “I luv yu. i haf nuther raz. I keep you good lik lada. Wil yu haf me to mary, if not I die
“Yur Rafael.
“I tak 1 hor a day for wik to make thiz note rite.”
Eleanor read the pathetic little missive through with growing dismay. He had misunderstood her kindness—the pictures she had given him to brighten the dark little hovel where he and his family lived, the Thanksgiving dinner she had sent them, the special smile she always had ready when he appeared at the club. She started to show her note to Mr. Thayer, then changed her mind.
After all, Rafael was in earnest, and she would treat his proposal like any other. It should be a secret between them. She would think out for herself some kindly way of explaining that she could not “haf” him “to mary,” and that he must not die of a broken heart.
The next evening when the class met she smiled at him just as usual, and catching his eye early in the evening slipped a note, folded as his had been, under his cap.
In it she had printed, in short easy words that Rafael could read, how sorry she was to disappoint him, how she liked him for a friend, how he must forget what he had written and work hard to make the Italian girl whom he would love some day proud and happy and comfortable.