She had said to her mother one day:
“Malone”—the sailor’s name—“has a good heart. I find my own in it. I wish we could give him a better chance in life.”
“He is an adventurer, thrown upon the world like a hulk of driftwood, hither and thither,” said her mother.
“I pity him. His heart deserves better friends than he has found. I want to be his friend. Why may I not?”
“If you were ever to marry a common sailor, Annie, I would strew salt on your grave. I married a common man, but he has been good to me. I have no respect whatever for those who marry beneath them and shame their own kin. But, Annie, that rover is worse than a common sailor—he is a Tory; think of that—a Tory!”
Such was the condition of the family when the old clock-cleaner returned.
He heard the story and said:
“I can hardly trust my ears. Annie was such a good girl. But the heart must wed its own. I pity her. She will come back again, for Annie is Annie.”
Then he turned to the clock and said: