"Don't be afraid," he said, holding out a hand to her, "I shan't smirch you——"
She realized her movement then, and pity filled her heart, pity for this great creature beside her whose own heart, the heart she knew, was like a child's.
"Dear," she murmured, "don't think that. Don't. I didn't mean to."
He seemed not to notice the plea in her voice.
"I don't blame you," he went on as calmly as before, "but it was because I knew you would do just that that I haven't told you before. But now—I can't wait any longer. Listen. My parents are Poles, Janet. My father and mother were born in the same tiny town in Poland a little way from Cracow. They came to this country when I was only five years old—before my sister—my little sister Pauline, was born. My father was a peddler at first; afterward for a time he was a street sweeper; and then, during a strike, a good many years ago, he went into the Stove Works and learned the moulder's trade. It's a good trade, Janet; the men sometimes earn four dollars a day, pouring the hot iron into the sand. My father earns that now——"
She had listened to him raptly, the pale light white upon her lifted face.
"But John," she exclaimed, "your name—your name isn't foreign?"
He laughed.
"My name isn't 'Adams,'" he replied.