Mary's eyes softened and grew wistful.
"Mother died when I was ten,"—she said—"But though I was so little, I remember her well. She was pretty—oh, so very pretty! Her hair was quite gold like the sun,—and her eyes were blue—like the sea. Dad worshipped her, and he never would say that she was dead. He liked to think that she was always with him,—and I daresay she was. Indeed, I am sure she was, if true love can keep souls together."
He was silent.
"Are you tired, David?" she asked, with sudden anxiety,—"I'm afraid I'm talking too much!"
He raised a hand in protest.
"No—no! I—I love to hear you talk, Mary! You have been so good to me—so more than kind—that I'd like to know all about you. But I've no right to ask you any questions—you see I'm only an old, poor man, and I'm afraid I shall never be able to do much in the way of paying you back for all you've done for me. I used to be clever at office work—reading and writing and casting up accounts, but my sight is failing and my hands tremble,—so I'm no good in that line. But whatever I can do for you, as soon as I'm able, I will!—you may depend upon that!"
She leaned towards him, smiling.
"I'll teach you basket-making,"—she said—"Shall I?"
His eyes lit up with a humorous sparkle.
"If I could learn it, should I be useful to you?" he asked.