No combination of letters can hope to convey an idea of the music of her rare utterance of her sweetheart’s name.
“But you wouldn’t like him better for the knowing,” he interrupted. “Besides, he will come out all right if he follows my instructions implicitly.”
She stared blankly at him, vainly trying to comprehend what he meant. Then there came an anxious look on her face, such a look as people wear when they wish to ask something of great moment, but dare not begin. At last she summoned up courage.
“Mr. Frost,” she said, in a weak, low voice, “he—Robert—hasn’t done anything wrong?”
“Wrong, what do you call wrong?” was the laconic question, “but I trust the matter is not so serious as it appears.”
“Ah, I am so foolish,” and she smiled gently.
“No, it is well enough to have a friend’s interest at heart, and you won’t cut him off if you hear it—you are not that sort. I know you are clever and thoughtful, and all that, but you possess the forgiving spirit. Now, unlike some men, I judge people gently, don’t come down on other men’s failings. Who are we, any of us, that we should be hard on others?”
“Judge gently,” she replied.
“I hope I always do that.”