Gene sat upon the broad arm of a chair nearby and twirled his cap. “Muriel, good friend,” he said, “I know to whom your box belongs.”
The girl looked up amazed, not understanding.
“Gene, how could yo’? We didn’t find a name or nothin’.”
“Yes, we found something. That is, I did.”
Those hazel eyes were again looking into the very soul of the boy, but he did not flinch. He had done nothing of which he was ashamed.
He slid down into the chair, and leaning forward, looked directly back at her. “I didn’t tell you at once, because I wanted to think it all over. I was so surprised I couldn’t quite understand myself what it could mean, but I do now, in part at least. May I tell you the story?”
The girl nodded and her hands lay idly in her lap, though still holding the sock she had been darning.
Gene told her all from the beginning. He wondered what her first remark would be when he paused. It was: “I reckon yo’re mother wouldn’t wish yo’ to be friends with me, Gene Beavers. I cal’late yo’d better go back to the city soon, to the kind of folks she’d want yo’ to be associatin’ with.”
“Nonsense, Muriel!” The lad had risen, and thrusting his hands deep in his pockets, he stood looking out of the window for a long time, silent, thoughtful.