“Because I’m sure you wouldn’t speak of it at all if you didn’t believe that I felt for you; that I was your friend.”
He drew a quick breath, pressing his lips together. There was a moment of silence; then he laughed discordantly.
“Oh, I know you! I remember how you took that maimed dog home when you were a child. All the others wanted it killed. I can see your eyes blaze now. How you fought for him! He had a right to live, you said. You always felt for the halt and the blind.”
“That dog was a comfort,” returned Virginia stoutly. “It wasn’t any merit to be good to him. He was the best watch-dog we ever had.”
“No one but you would have nursed that ugly, old, lame dog. It’s your pity, Virginia—that’s what I’m trading on—when I talk of my lameness.”
Virginia rose suddenly from the piano and came over to his side. Before he knew what she was going to do, she had laid one of her firm young hands on his shoulder.
“Hush!” she said sternly. “You’re getting embittered; you’re losing the proportion of things, Daniel. If you talk like that I shall not pity you; I shall not even be your friend. Remember the gifts you’ve got, the brains God has given you. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, Daniel Carter?”
He did not answer for a moment. He sat quite still, looking up into her face soberly, aware of her hand on his shoulder.
“What am I to do if I can’t help feeling that way, Virginia?” he asked at last in a low voice.
“You mustn’t; I forbid you!” she said quickly, but she faltered.