“Good-evenin’, Mr. Blank.”
He took the hand. It belonged to a girl of eighteen, bareheaded and barefooted, holding in the other hand a small oil-can. Her eyes looked steadily into his.
“You don’t know me,” she said, pleasantly.
“Why, yes, now I remember you. You’re Maggie.”
“Yes,” replied the girl. “Don’t you recollect—in the mission-school? Don’t you recollect you married me and Larry? That’s two years ago.” She almost laughed out with pleasure.
“And where’s Larry?”
“Why, don’t you recollect? He’s on the sloop-o’-war Preble.” Then she added more gravely: “I aint seen him in twenty months. But I know he’s all right. I aint a-scared about that—only if he’s alive and well; yes, sir. Well, good-evenin’, sir. Yes, sir; I think I’ll come to the mission nex’ Sunday—and I’ll bring the baby, will I? All right, sir. Well, so long, sir. Take care of yourself, sir.”
What a word that was! It echoed in his ear all the way home: “Take care of yourself.” What boast is there for the civilization that refines away the unconscious heroism of the unfriended poor?
He was glad he had not told Richling all his little secret. But Richling found it out later from Dr. Sevier.