“You’re sure,” she said, hesitatingly; “you’re quite sure he will not come here—to you—if you tell him I understand, and—and you ask him?”
“Well, Caroline, I don’t know. You see, I was responsible for his comin’ before. He had some scruples against it then, but I talked him down. He’s sort of proud, Jim is, and he might—might not want to—to—”
“I see. Good night, Uncle.”
The next morning, after breakfast, she came to him again.
“Uncle Elisha,” she said, “I have written him.”
“What? You’ve written? Written who?”
“Mr. Pearson. I wrote him, telling him I had learned the true story of his disagreement with father and that he was right and I was wrong. I apologized for my behavior toward him. Now, I think, perhaps, if you ask him, he will come.”
The captain looked at her. He realized the sacrifice of her pride which writing that letter must have meant, and that she had done it for him. He was touched and almost sorry she had done it. He took both her hands in his.
“Dearie,” he said, “you shouldn’t have done that. I didn’t expect you to. I know you did it just for my sake. I won’t say I ain’t glad; I am, in one way. But ’twa’n’t necessary, and ’twas too much, too hard for you altogether.”
“Don’t say that,” she begged. “Too much! I never can do enough. Compared to what you have done for me it—it.... Oh, please let me do what little I can. But, Uncle Elisha, promise me one thing; promise that you will not ask me to meet him, if he should come. That I couldn’t do, even for you.”