"I think not."
"Is she—is she in love with you?"
"Oh, no! That is impossible. Oh, no!" he repeated. "That couldn't be. It would be too terrible."
"It's terrible enough as it is. Are you going to tell Shirley?"
"That wouldn't help matters, would it?"
"I suppose not," she sighed. "David, you must be very gentle with her. It isn't her fault she wanted to run away from hard times. All her life we have spoiled her, her father and mother and Maizie and I. I did it worst of all, as I never spoiled my own child. David, come over here."
He went to the chair beside her and she reached for his hand very awkwardly.
"Oh, David, it's going to be very hard for you—all because an old fool—" Aunt Clara was crying now, noisily and unbeautifully because she had had little practise. "And I'm afraid that when you see Shirley you'll find it even harder than you thought." . . .
Shirley came only a little before it was time for him to start for his train. He was playing on the library floor with Davy Junior when an automobile came to a panting stop before the house. A minute later came Shirley's voice from the hall, "Da-vy!" The little fellow scrambled to his feet and ran to meet her at the door. She caught him and swung him strongly in her arms, hugging and kissing him. And David saw that the months had been kind to Shirley. The marks of worry and discontent had been erased, her eyes danced and her cheeks glowed with health and pleasure. Oh, a very fair picture was Shirley, in the full flower of her loveliness.
But his heart went not one beat faster for her.