“You are tired!” he declared, pausing in his attempt to fasten the little pearl buttons. “I have been cruel to let you get off the train!”
“Indeed I’m not,” said the girl, brightening with sudden effort. At least, she would not spoil the kindness while it lasted. It was surely better than what she had feared.
“You never can button those shoes with your fingers,” she laughed, as he redoubled his efforts to capture a tiny disc of pearl and set it into its small velvet socket. “Here! I have a button-hook in my hand-bag. Try this.”
She produced a small silver instrument from a gold-link bag on her arm and handed it to him. He took it helplessly, trying first one end and then the other, and succeeding with neither.
“Here, let me show you,” she laughed, pulling off one glove. Her white fingers grasped the silver button-hook, and flashed in and out of the velvet holes, knitting the little shoe to the foot in no time. He watched the process in humble wonder, and she would not have been a human girl not to have been flattered with his interest and admiration. For the minute she forgot who and what he was, and let her laugh ring out merrily; and so with shy audacity he assayed to take off the other shoe.
They really felt quite well acquainted and as if they were going on a day’s picnic, when they finally gathered up their belongings and started down the road. Gordon summoned all his ready wit and intellect to brighten the walk for her, though he found himself again and again on the brink of referring to his Washington life, or some other personal matter that would have brought a wondering question to her lips. He had decided that he must not tell her who he was until he could put her in an independent position, where she could get away from him at once if she chose. He was bound to look after her until he could place her in good hands, or at least where she could look after herself, and it was better to carry it out leaving her to think what she pleased until he could tell her everything. If all went well, they might be able to catch a Pittsburgh train that night and be in Washington the next day. Then, his message delivered, he would tell her the whole story. Until then he must hold his peace.
They went gaily down the road, the girl’s pale cheeks beginning to flush with the morning and the exercise. She was not naturally delicate, and her faint the night before had been the result of a series of heavy strains on a heart burdened with terrible fear. The morning and his kindness had made her forget for the time that she was supposed to be walking into a world of dread and sacrifice.
“The year’s at the spring,
The day’s at the morn,”
quoted Gordon gaily,