"Oh, no," she cried; "you are so good to me."
"I'm good to you for my own sake," he answered. "Don't you see that? Don't you suppose I am looking out for my own happiness?" He paused. "Don't you think I am?" he resumed, an insistent note in his voice.
They were near the cottage, but she felt obliged to answer.
"But, Homer," she said, "I have no happiness to give anyone! What return can I make for this sacrifice?"
They were opposite the cottage. Clustered heads in the window of the Warner house showed how their return had been waited for; Homer discerned the white muslin rose in his mother's black bonnet, and if the sight made his face hard, it softened the touch of his hands as he lifted Myron down from the high seat, and then put the boy in her arms.
The little gate stood leaning against the fence. It had been lifted off its hinges, to leave free room for the coffin and its bearers to pass. Myron paused between the gate-posts; Homer bent above her.
"I will tell you some day," he said, "what you can give me."
"I WILL TELL YOU SOME DAY WHAT YOU CAN GIVE ME."