"Sit down here, Frank," said Atwater, with a serious smile. "I want to talk with you."
It was so extraordinary for the phlegmatic Abe to express a wish to talk with any body, that Frank almost felt awed by the summons. Something within him said that a communication of no trivial import was coming. So he sat down. And the tongue of the taciturn was that night, for once in his life, strangely loosened.
"I can't say it to the rest, Frank; I don't know why. But I feel as if I could say it to you."
"Do," said Frank, thrilling with sympathy to the soldier's mysterious emotion. "What is it, Abe?"
For a minute Atwater sat gazing, gazing—not at the fire. Then he lifted from the book, which he held so tenderly, his right hand, and laid it upon Frank's. And he turned to the boy with a smile.
"I've liked you from the first, Frank. Did you know it?"
"If you have, I don't know why," said Frank, deeply touched.
"Nor do I," said the private. "Some we like, and some we don't, without the reason for it appearing altogether clear. I liked you even when you didn't please me very well."
"You mean when——" began Frank, stammeringly.
"Yes, you know when. It used to hurt me to see and hear you—but that is past."