"Don't, girlie!" His tone was as if she had struck him.
One little white hand touched his arm. With quick divination her searching look read the tale told in his drawn face, in the sight of the satchel upon the curb, the letter in his hand. She gently took it from him.
"For me?"
He nodded, he could not have spoken just then. He swallowed hard while his eyes hungrily devoured the rare, fair sight of her, the slightly sharpened outlines of her lovely face, the pallor that was the heritage of illness, the sweetness of her eyes.
His letter in her hand, she moved a little away from him, then turned and walked to the curb. She rent the envelope straight across, and tearing the residue into tiny fragments, tossed the pieces like snowflakes upon the pavement. Retracing her steps, she confronted O'Byrn.
"Tell me all about it," she suggested, very gently.
With a low, bitter cry he clasped her little hand in both his own, stammering that he was unfit, that there was another blot, a repetition of the old, wretched story. She understood, and there was only a low exclamation of sympathy as she looked into his tortured face with eyes that were wonderful with forgiveness and love. For she had known instinctively long since that it must always be so, and with her woman's devotion, had resolved to help him, notwithstanding, to the end.
"What did I tell you once, dear?" she asked him low. "It's for you to always try, Micky, and what credit's for those who don't have to try? You have tried, my boy, and you must keep on trying—for my sake. Remember, dear, you can never fail while you try—and it's trying—it's trying that brings us—where dreams—where dreams—come—true."
The low voice was lost in a stifled sob. Her little hands, her poor, thin hands, sought her face. The tears trickled from between her clasped fingers.
Miserably he sought gently to draw her hands from her wet eyes. "Don't cry, Maisie," he begged, fighting with his constricted throat, winking blurred eyes. "Why do you? It—it kills me!"