Overton stood with his back against the door, looking down at her. In his eyes was a keen sorrow as she sat down in that despairing fashion, and crept close to the stranger as though for refuge from him.
“I might have avoided telling what I heard,” he continued; “but I don’t think that would be quite square among friends. Then, as I see you have found a new acquaintance here, I thought maybe you would have something to tell me if you knew what I heard you say to him.”
But, kindly as his words were, she seemed to shrink from them.
“No; I can’t. Oh, Mr. Dan, I can’t—I can’t,” she muttered, with her head still bowed on the arm of the chair occupied by Harris. “If you can’t trust me any more, I can’t blame you. But I can’t tell you—that’s all.”
“Then I’ll just go down stairs again,” he decided, “and you can finish your talk with Harris. I’ll keep the rest of the folks from interrupting you as I did. But if you want me, little girl, you know I’ll not be far away.”
The tears came in her eyes. His persistent kindness to her made her both ashamed and glad, and she reached out her hand.
“Wait,” she said, “maybe I have something to tell you,” and she unfolded the paper again and showed it to Harris. 148
“Shall I tell him? Would you rather he would be the man to do the business?” she asked. “You know I’m willing, but I don’t know enough myself. Do you want him to be the man?”
Harris nodded his head.
With a look of relief on her face, she turned to Overton, who watched them wonderingly.