She pointed to the scar.
"Could you endure seeing this opposite to you every day at your table?" she asked bitterly.
"Yes—if I could see your sweet eyes and your beloved smile with it, Avery," he answered passionately. "Oh, Avery, it was you I loved—not your outward favor. Oh, how foolish you were—foolish and morbid! You always put too high a value on beauty, Avery. If I had dreamed of the true state of the case—if I had known you were here all these years—why I heard a rumor long ago that you had married, Avery—but if I had known I would have come to you and made you be—sensible."
She gave a little laugh at his lame conclusion. That was so like the old Walter. Then her eyes filled with tears as he took her in his arms.
The door of the blue room opened. Jims did not look up. It was Aunt Augusta, of course—and she had heard the whole story.
"Jims, boy."
Jims lifted his miserable eyes. It was Uncle Walter—but a different Uncle Walter—an Uncle Walter with laughing eyes and a strange radiance of youth about him.
"Poor, lonely little fellow," said Uncle Walter unexpectedly. "Jims, would you like Miss Avery to come here—and live with us always—and be your real aunt?"
"Great snakes!" said Jims, transformed in a second. "Is there any chance of that?"