"Yes," said Barnabas, "I will promise, but—on condition that you henceforth will regard me as a brother. That you will allow me the privilege of helping you whenever I may, and will always turn to me in your need. Will you promise me this, Clemency?" And Barnabas held out his hand.
"Yes," she answered, smiling up into his earnest eyes, "I think I shall be—proud to—have you for a brother." And she put her hand into his.
"Ah! so you're a-going, are ye?" demanded the cobbler, disgorging the last of the nails as Barnabas stepped into the dark little shop.
"Yes," said Barnabas, "and, if you think my boots sufficiently trustworthy, I should like to shake your hand."
"Eh?" exclaimed the cobbler, "shake 'ands with old Nick, sir? But you're one o' the Quality, and I 'ates the Quality—chop off their 'eads if I 'ad my way, I would! and my 'and's very dirty—jest let me wipe it a bit,—there sir, if you wish to! and 'ere's 'oping to see you again. Though, mark you, the Frenchies was quite right,—there's nothing like the gillertine, I say. Good arternoon, sir."
Then Barnabas went out into the narrow, grimy alley, and closed the crazy door behind him. But he had not gone a dozen yards when he heard Clemency calling his name, and hastened back.
"Mr. Beverley," said she, "I want to ask you—something else—about my father—"
"Yes," said Barnabas, as she hesitated.
"Does he think I am—does he know that—though I ran away with—a beast, I—ran away—from him, also,—does he know—?"
"He knows you for the sweet, pure woman you are," said Barnabas as she fell silent again, "he knows the truth, and lives but to find you again—my sister!" Now, when he said this, Barnabas saw within her tearful eyes the light of a joy unutterable; so he bared his head and, turning about, strode quickly away up the alley.