“Mr. Dale, do you know what day to-morrow is?”
I had been expecting the question and dreading it.
“Yes,” I answered, “I know well that it is the day we have been accustomed to celebrate as Joey’s birthday.”
I spoke impatiently. But when I saw the tears in her eyes, I stopped there in the road and took her by the shoulders and turned her around to me ruthlessly, crying:
“Listen to me! You must be hurt, if you will, at my surliness, Wanza Lyttle! I cannot keep my tongue smooth when my nerves are ragged. We go on and on, and bear much—stoically—for weeks, months, years, indeed, and then—suddenly, we can bear no more! We reach the pinnacle of pain. We cry out—with the poignancy of it. But after that, I have a fancy, we can never suffer so much again. I am at the pinnacle. There is no last straw for me. It has been placed. After to-morrow the worst will be over. God! let me get through the day and play the man.”
She said not a word. We parted silently. But after I had gone a little way she came running after me.
“I only wanted to say, David Dale,” she breathed, “I only wanted to say—”
“Yes, Wanza?”
“I only wanted to say, ‘God bless you.’”