“O Little Ann!” he breathed tumultuously. “O Little Ann!”
Mr. Hutchinson was looking about the library as he had looked about the hall.
“Well, I never thought I'd get inside Temple Barlholm in my day,” he exclaimed. “Eh, lad, tha must feel like bull in a china shop.”
“I feel like a whole herd of 'em,” answered Tembarom. Hutchinson nodded. He understood.
“Well, perhaps tha'll get over it in time,” he conceded, “but it'll take thee a good bit.” Then he gave him a warmly friendly look. “I'll lay you know what Ann came with me for to-day.” The way Little Ann looked at him—the way she looked at him!
“I came to thank you, Mr. Temple Barholm,” she said—“to thank you.” And there was an odd, tender sound in her voice.
“Don't you do it, Ann,” Tembarom answered. “Don't you do it.”
“I don't know much about business, but the way you must have worked, the way you must have had to run after people, and find them, and make then listen, and use all your New York cleverness—because you ARE clever. The way you've forgotten all about yourself and thought of nothing but father and the invention! I do know enough to understand that, and it seems as if I can't think of enough to say. I just wish I could tell you what it means to me.” Two round pearls of tears brimmed over and fell down her cheeks. “I promised mother FAITHFUL I'd take care of him and see he never lost hope about it,” she added, “and sometimes I didn't know whatever I was going to do.”
It was perilous when she looked at one like that, and she was so little and light that one could have snatched her up in his arms and carried her to the big arm-chair and sat down with her and rocked her backward and forward and poured forth the whole thing that was making him feel as though he might explode.
Hutchinson provided salvation.