“You see?” he groaned. “You see, Phoebe, what an old fool I am. I can't ask you to marry me, me fifty-five, and rough from knockin' round the world, and you, young and educated, and a lady. I ain't fool enough to ask such a thing as that. And yet, I couldn't stay here and meet you every day, and by and by see you marry somebody else. By the big dipper, I couldn't do it! So that's why I can't shake hands with you to-day—nor any more, except when I say good-by for keeps.”
Then she looked up. The color was still bright in her face, and her eyes were moist, but she was smiling.
“Can't shake hands with me?” she said. “Please, what have you been doing for the last five minutes?”
Captain Cy dropped her hand as if his own had been struck with paralysis.
“Good land!” he stammered. “I didn't know I did it; honest truth, I didn't.”
Phoebe's smile was still there, faint, but very sweet.
“Why did you stop?” she queried. “I didn't ask you to.”
“Why did I stop? Why, because I—I—I declare I'm ashamed—”
She took his hand and clasped it with both her own.
“I'm not,” she said bravely, her eyes brightening as the wonder and incredulous joy grew in his. “I'm very proud. And very, very happy.”