Cyrus apologized. "I am very sorry. I didn't mean anything—in particular. I only—just thought I'd ask."
She patted his shoulder to assure him no harm was done.
"This lady, Cyrus, is an old friend of mine," said his father. "And is very glad to see you and is sorry you have no mother. That's all."
Now Cyrus would sooner doubt a voice from heaven than his father's word; and any one could easily see that the lady was much disturbed—so much disturbed that it shortened the interview. The parting with his father seemed painful and took a long time. Both had much to say. They seemed to cling to each other, and he kissed her several times. At last, after a tearful farewell to Cyrus, with a long embrace in which her wet cheeks were pressed long against his face, she hurried away.
There was sorrow in his drowsy eyes as he watched the departing figure. No woman had ever treated him in such a way, and he had begun to like it. Before she disappeared around a curve in the path, even before the sound of her pleasant voice had died away in his ears—something happened!
A fat, gray squirrel, followed by another fat, gray squirrel jumped upon the bench just where the lady had been sitting! And there they sat almost within reach!
He was young. Within a month the unexplained lady, her face, her voice and her caresses had begun to fade from his unfledged memory. But the two gray squirrels, almost within reach, sitting up with their funny little hands crossed upon their portly stomachs, he remembered clearly.
