"Will you come home with me now, Tom?" she asked. She too had been crying softly.
He looked up. They were so close together that she could detect the humble, wistful look in his face. His lips moved, but the words did not come at once.
"Home with you?"
"Yes. We have our plans to discuss, Tom."
"To your father's house?" he persisted.
"Yes. He understands. I talked it all over with him this afternoon. It was hard to do, Tom,—it was very hard to hurt that poor old man all over again. But I had it to do, and he understands. He asked me to bring you back with me. I told him I would. He wants to talk with you in the morning."
"Mary," he began, fingering his hat in the extremity of an emotion that almost benumbed him, "I don't know whether you want to hear me say it, but I've never stopped caring for you. It isn't all Christine with me. I just want to tell you that."
"I understand, Tom," she said, still more gently.
"I can't take any help from your father," he managed to say after another long period of silence.
"He will offer nothing but his hand and his well-wishes."