“Forgive me for what I said to you.”
C. B. stared at her and asked—
“What can you mean, Miss Stewart? How can I forgive you when you have never done me wrong?”
Then the young lady bursting into tears sobbed, “Oh, yes, I have. I thought you were dull, stupid, and hardened because you didn’t make a fuss, as I expected you to. And now you act like this—it’s heaping coals of fire on my head.”
At this Mr. Stewart came along and said—
“Come, my girl, get to your bed, we shall be in Chicago in about an hour and you need all the rest you can get.”
She obeyed with a look full of gratitude at C. B., who stood quite bewildered at the sudden and strange march of events.
He was not relieved when Mr. Stewart, holding out his hand, blurted out, “Mr. Christmas, you’re the whitest man I know. And if you can believe me, there isn’t anything that lies in my power to do for you that I won’t do on the word. So give it a name and let me show my gratitude.”
It was then Mr. Stewart’s turn to feel astonished and set back, for C. B. with some dignity replied, “Mr. Stewart, I don’t understand you. I really haven’t done anything but what any man would have done. I can’t imagine what makes you American gentlemen and ladies try and spoil a poor man like me. Surely there is nothing wonderful or strange in my behaviour, nothing that any man among you would not have done under the same circumstances.”