“Let’s go over here and sit down. I don’t want to see the rest quite yet, little one. Why, Betty, do you suppose I can let go of you yet?”
“No,” said Betty, meekly, and again Richard laughed. She lifted the hair from his temple and touched the old scar.
“Yes, it’s there, Betty. I’m glad he hit me that welt. I would have pushed him over but for that. I deserved it.”
“You’re not so like him––not so like as you used to be. No one would mistake you now. You don’t look so much like yourself as you used to––and you’ve a lot of white in your hair. Oh, Richard!”
“Yes. It’s been pretty tough, Betty, dear,––pretty tough. Let’s talk of something else.”
“And all the time I couldn’t help you––even the least bit.”
“But you were a help all the time––all the time.”
“How, Richard?”
“I had a clean, sweet, perfect, innocent place always in my heart where you were that kept me from caring for a lot of foolishness that tempted other men. It was a good, sweet, wholesome place where you sat always. When I wanted to see you sitting there, I had only to take a funny little leather housewife, all worn, and tied with cherry-colored hair ribbons, in my hand and look at it and remember.”