Again that evening the Colonel left us, and I helped the pretty girl with her lessons, and we had two more wistful hours, the like of which one remembers with thankfulness and a sad smile. Where should I look to match them? Surely not in my own life, long as it has been. She sighed when I spoke of leaving, and a little tremble in her lips said so much to me—things rich with meaning and mystery.
“I'll have to help in the kitchen next week,” said she, with an air of responsibility. “Fannie, our cook, is to be married.”
“Her name is Comstock?”
“Yes.”
“I know all about it—Sam told me.”
“Sam!” she exclaimed, with a look of contempt. “He kept her waiting three years because he hadn't the courage to propose.”
Then I told her of my adventures, and how they led to Sam, and how Sam had straightway led me to her, or, at least, so near that we could not help meeting. I told her of our life at Baker's, but said not a word of the letter—that seemed to me a sacred confidence. However, I did tell of Sam's fear when he reached Summerville. She thought it very foolish of him.
“I should think that would be the best part of it—asking her to marry him and telling about his love,” said she, turning serious and feeling her beads.
“What kind of a man would you prefer?” I bravely inquired.
“Let me see,” she said, leaning her chin upon her hands in a thoughtful and pretty pose. “Of course, he must be good, and he really must be handsome and tall and strong and brave, and I want him to be a great man; and I am studying very, very hard so that I can help him to be great.”