“He surely never said I threw him overboard?”
“No, but I guessed it; how could he ’a got so wet otherwise, and why was he so mad?”
“Well, you guessed all wrong; I did nothing of the sort, and hope you have told no one such a silly story.”
“Never mind that now,” interrupted Harry. “Mr. Goodlow is waiting for his breakfast; so take as much water as you want or you will be too late.”
“Give my respects to Mr. Goodlow,” added his father, “and say he is welcome to water from our well at any time, and that I regret it has injured his.”
“Yes, and you can add that father will call on him this evening, and now be off; I’ll draw the water for you.” This was very polite in Harry, but respect for woman, even in the humblest ranks, is ever the attribute of an American, and—it is possible Harry may have wished to send a message to Katy. “Leastways,” as the girl would have said, Katy was hardly out of sight of her front gate when she heard a step she well knew.
“Oh, Harry,” she said, turning a pair of sorrowful eyes upon him, that shot reproachful torments into his very heart. “How could you?”
The sentence was incomplete in its construction, but complete enough in its effects; it was enforced with a little sob and made Harry about as contemptible a wretch, in his own esteem, as if she had rehearsed a set speech of an hour’s duration, depicting his enormities.
“I am so sorry, Katy. Do you forgive me? I have been wretched.” This was a good tack, and being borne out by his appearance and evident contrition, went a long way towards securing his pardon.
What exactly was said, the tones being low and the faces close together, will never be discovered, but light came back to Katy’s eyes, color to her cheeks, and a smile, if nothing more, to her lips; and ere the church was reached a happier couple could not be found within it. Joy is doubly blessed if preceded by sorrow, and only those who have known its want can appreciate happiness.