“Now, son, must you go out?” she pleaded, her spectacles awry on the top of her head, her eyes unnaturally bright.
“Yes, Aunt Polly.” Northrup paused, the knob of the door in hand, and looked down at the little creature.
“Is it fair, son?” Aunt Polly was savagely thinking of the gossip of the Forest––she wildly believed that Northrup might be going to the yellow house. The hurry of departure might blind him to folly.
“Fair––fair to whom, Aunt Polly?” Northrup’s brows drew together.
“To yourself, son. Bad news and the sudden going away–––” the old voice choked. It was hard to use an enemy’s weapon against one’s own, even to save him.
“Aunt Polly, look at me.” This was spoken sternly.
“I am looking, son, I am looking.” And so she was.
“I’m going out, because I must, if I am to do my duty by others. You must trust me. And I want you to know that all my future life will be the stronger, the safer, because of my weeks here with you all! I came to you with no purpose––just a tired, half-sick man, but things were taken out of my hands. I’ve been used, and I don’t know myself just yet for what. I’m going to have faith and you must have it––I’m with you, not against you. Will you kiss me, Aunt Polly?”
From his height Northrup bent to Polly’s littleness, but she reached up to him with her frail tender arms and seemed to gather him into her denied motherhood. Without a word she kissed him and––let him go!