In a very soft voice came:
“Tibby.”
He opened to her. She had his night-shirt in her hand. She closed the door and said:
“You’ve torn your shift.”
“Yes. I tore it in my sleep.”
“Poor laddie,” she said. “If I could do aught to help ye I would. Ye’re a poor solitary body. . . . It’s this house and the misery that’s not of your making.”
Bennett looked at her and the kindness in her eyes made him burst into tears. She patted his shoulders, went away into the kitchen and came back with a glass of milk and some biscuits. She saw that he ate and drank, and Bennett said:
“Thank you. I feel better . . . Tibby, why don’t people understand what they are?”
“God knows,” said she. “It’s all a great mystery. There’s a deal of unkindness, and a little kindness in the world. It’s not given to us to understand.”
“Tibby—” he paused. “Tibby, would you love me whatever I did?”