"I—I want you to go up thar to the city and stay thar, whar ye can see Deely and make her feel like she had a real, true friend—some one to 'tend on her as I mout, if I was fit—and to help her if she want any help. Dog-gone it! Mebbe it's foolish, and I reckon she ar' happy enough and won't need nothin', but 'pears like I couldn't stand it, the way 'tis now. I want ye to go, Sylv—for me."
"You ask me to do this, Dennie?" said Sylv. "Why did you think of my going? Why not go yourself?"
"'Cause I'm not fit for't. An' what's more, she don't want me. She said she war a-goin' away, so's she could be alone, and I could be alone. An' I couldn't do nothin' if I was thar, Sylv."
"I see. It would be some comfort to you if I were to go. If you're sure you want it, Dennie, I reckon I can manage."
"There ain't no more doubt on it," answered Dennie, "than when I put my helm down to starboard to get the east breeze, steerin' north'ard. There ain't no one else I can count on, Sylv, 'less it be you. An', Sylv, I—I trust you; I got faith in you!"
He held out his rough hand, and Sylv grasped it firmly. There were tears in Dennie's eyes, seeing which Sylv pressed his brother's weather-beaten palm the harder.
"All right, Dennie. I won't fail you."
And so the compact was made.
Sylv was absolutely honest in what he said. He knew but one ambition, and the gaining of any woman's love had never formed a part of it. Why was it, then, that his spirits rose so at the thought of being near Adela once more?