“No. I believe I am sane, at least. I have been thinking a great deal of late. As I have been growing stronger I have been thinking more and more and I am not sure that you and I have been right in hiding here as we have done. It was all my fault, I know, but I was weak and—and I dreaded all the gossip and scandal. But, Boy, it was a mistake. After all, we have done no wrong, you and I—we, personally, have nothing to be ashamed of. Why not end all this? Go to Mr. Colton, tell him who you are, tell him our story; then, if he still wants you—”
I interrupted. “No, Mother,” I said, “no, no! It is impossible. Even if he knew, and it made no difference, I could not do it. I may go away! I may feel that I must go, if you are well enough for me to leave you, but I can not go with him. I ought not to see him again. I must not see HER. . . . . Oh, don't you understand? Mother, I—I—”
She understood. I had seized her hand and now she stroked it gently with her own.
“So it is true,” she said, quietly. “You love her, Roscoe.”
“Yes! yes! yes!” I answered, desperately. “Oh, don't speak of it, Mother! I am insane, I think.”
“Does she care for you, Boy? Have you spoken to her?”
“MOTHER! Is it likely?”
“But I think she does care, Roscoe. I think she does. She must.”
This was so characteristic that, although I was in anything but a laughing mood, I could not help smiling.
“How could she help it? I presume you mean,” I observed, sarcastically. “There, Mother, don't worry. I did not intend that you or anyone else should know what an idiot I am, but don't worry—I shan't do anything ridiculous or desperate. I may go somewhere, to get away from Denboro, and to earn a living for you and me, but that is all. We won't speak of her again.”