“Are—are you sure no one else knows?” I asked.
“Certain sure. There was one time when it might have all come out. A reporter fellow from one of the Boston papers got on the track somehow and came down here to investigate. Luckily I was the first man he tackled, and I steered him away. I presume likely I lied some, but my conscience is easy so far as that goes.”
“And you have told no one? Not even Nellie?”
“No. I tell Nellie most things, but not all—not all.”
I remembered afterwards that he sighed as he said this and took his hand from my knee; but then my agitation was too great to do more than casually notice it. I rose to my feet.
“George! George!” I cried. “I—I can't say to you what I should like. But why—WHY did you shield me? And lie for me? Why did you do it? I was hardly more than a stranger.”
He sighed. “Don't know,” he answered. “I never could quite see why a man's sins should be visited on the widows and fatherless. And, of course, I realized that you and your mother changed your name and came down here to get away from gossip and talk. But I guess the real reason was that I liked you, Ros. Love at first sight, same as we read about; hey?”
He looked up and smiled. I seized his hand.
“George,” I said, chokingly, “I did not believe I had a real friend in the world, except Mother and Dorinda and Lute, of course. I can't thank you enough for shielding us all these years; there's no use in my trying. But if ever I can do anything to help YOU—anything—I'll do it. I'll swear to that.”
He shook my hand.