"Yes—an' my knees fairly give way beneath me, for I saw Happy standin' before me an' speakin' in the voice I remember so well."
"A long while, twenty-six years, Cale?"
"Don't, Marcia, don't rub it in so!" He was half resentful; and I, having brought him to this point, was satisfied to relent.
"Cale," I said, withdrawing my hand and facing him, as well as I could with my new foot appendages to steer, "I 'll forgive you for not paying any attention to me for twenty-six years, on one condition—"
"What is thet?" His eagerness was almost pathetic.
"That you 'll take me for just what I am, who I am, Marcia Farrell—not Happy Morey; if you don't I shall be unhappy. And you 're to love me for myself, do you hear? Just for myself, and not because I 'm the living image of my mother. Now don't you forget. I give you warning, I shall be insanely jealous if you love me for anybody but myself—and I take it for granted you do love me, don't you, Cale?"
"You know I do, Marcia."
I had him at my mercy and I was merciful.
"Well, then, if I did n't have all this paraphernalia on my feet, I would venture to throw my arms around your neck and give you a good hug—Uncle Cale. As it is I might flop suddenly and fall upon your breast."
"Guess I could stand it if you did,"—he smiled happily, the creases around his eyes deepening to wrinkles,—"but 'twixt you and me, this ain't exactly the place nor the weather for any palaverin'—"