“I am not remembering him particularly,” said Tom, the shade passing from his eyes; “I am remembering you—as you were nineteen years ago.”
“Nineteen years ago!” said Sheba. “I was a baby!”
“Yes,” answered Tom, folding a big arm round her, and speaking slowly. “I saw a man to-day who reminded me of the day you were born. Are you glad you were born, Sheba? that’s what I want to be sure of.”
The two pairs of young eyes met glowing. Tom knew they had met, by the warmth of the soft cheek touching him.
“Yes, I am glad—I am glad—I am glad!” with grateful sweetness.
“And I—and I,” cried Rupert. He sprung up and held out an impetuous boyish hand to Tom. “You know how glad, Uncle Tom—look at her—look at me—see how glad we both are; and it is you—you who have made it so.”
“It’s a pretty big thing,” said Tom, “that two people should be glad they are alive.” And he grasped the ardent hand as affectionately as it was offered.