Hawkins' eyes were still on the floor.
“Ain't there nothing”—his voice was thick and husky—“ain't there nothing in all the world that any of us can do to make you change your mind? Claire, ain't there nothing, nothing at all? John Bruce said there wasn't, and you love John Bruce, but——”
“Don't, Hawkins!” she cried out pitifully.
The old shoulders came slowly up, and the old head; and the old blue eyes were of a sudden strangely flints like.
“I've got to know,” said Hawkins, in a dead, stubborn way.
“There is nothing,” she answered.
Hawkins' eyes reverted to the floor. He spoke now without lifting them.
“Then—then it's—it's like saying good-by,” he said, and the broken note was back again in his voice. “It's—it's so many years that mabbe you've forgotten, but when you were a little girl, and before you grew up, and—and were too big for that, I—I used to hold you in my arms, and you used to put your little arms around my neck, and kiss me, and—and you used to say that—Hawkins would never let the bugaboos get you, and—and I wonder if—if——”
“Oh, Hawkins!” Claire's eyes were full of tears. “I remember. Dear, dear Hawkins! And I used to call you Daddy Hawkins. Do you remember?”
A tear found a furrow and trickled down the old weather-beaten face unchecked, as Hawkins raised his head.