“How do you do, Barry?” she said, extending a hand with a frank girlish smile, as she entered the large, comfortable, but plainly furnished room.
“Good evening,” he replied, gravely.
“You have something on your mind, Barry,” she said, shrewdly. “Come, now, out with it to your mother confessor.”
He gave her a glance that partook largely of the nature of adoration.
“Seems like the other day,” he said, dreamily, “that I was sauntering into this town a lazy, good-for-nothing, despised tramp.”
Mrs. Everest smiled. “I have almost forgotten that brown-faced man out by the iron works.”
“I’ll never forget how you looked that day,” he said, earnestly, “such a clean, sweet slip of a girl.”
“Four years ago, Barry,” she said, shaking her head; “four years ago.”
“And I had the impudence to ask you for money,” he went on, “and worse, to threaten you, and you forgave me, and brought me in to town and gave me shelter and food. May the Lord bless you for it!”
“I have my reward now,” she said, quietly. “You don’t know what a pleasure it is to me to see you living happily out on the island with your wife. She is a good woman, Barry.”