“‘No woman will ever love me well enough to go to such a place with me,’ he said.
“Just then I dropped the scissors and had to bend down to pick them up. The widow went out into the kitchen to set the sponge for her bread and clear out the stove for morning, and we stayed alone and talked. We talked about whether he would be homesick and seasick, and how glad he would be of letters from home; not that he had many friends to write to him, though; and I sewed on and on, and threaded my needle, and dropped my scissors, and almost cried because all I cared for in the wide world would sail away with him, and he would never know!
“‘The best of friends must part,’ he said when she brought in his candle and lighted it for him.
“In the morning, we all arose early and took our last breakfast together by lamplight. She shook hands with him twice, and wished him all sorts of good wishes, and then he held out his hand to me and said, ‘Good-by.’ I said, ‘Good-by.’ And then he said, ‘You have given me a very pleasant winter; I shall often think of it.’ And I said, ‘Thank you,’ and ran away up-stairs to cry by myself. That was five and twenty years ago—before you were born, Sue, and before Tessa could creep; there were wet eyes in the world, before you were born, girls, and there will be wet eyes long after we are all dead; and always for the same reason—because somebody loves somebody.
“He is a hard worker—I rejoice in his life. Five years ago he came home, but not to Dunellen; he had no friends here; after resting awhile he returned to his field of labor, and died before he reached it, but was buried in the place he loved better than home.
“I thought of him and loved him and prayed for him through those twenty years. I think of him and love him and give thanks for him now, and shall till I die and afterwards!”
“Why didn’t you go with him?” asked Sue.
“Would you if he had?”
“I certainly should.”