“Sol!” exclaimed Jim with a gulp that spoke intense relief. “Why, my good girl, my name’s not Sol!”
“Oh, yes it is!” she answered bravely, with the smile fading. “I tell you I’d a-knowed you anywheres.”
“You’re making a mistake, dear lassie. My name is certainly not Sol.”
A glimmer of light was beginning to break in on Phil, but he kept that glimmer miserly to his inmost self.
“Yes it is! Oh, yes it is!” she said again, putting her hand on Jim’s arm, but with a peculiar little expression of uncertainty in her eyes.
“You can’t fool me, Sol Hanson,––and, say boy!––I’ve come a long ways for you, and I’m awful tired.”
“Hanson! Good Lord!” blurted out Jim. “Me––Sol Hanson! Lassie, lassie, I didna think I was so good looking. Are ye looking for Sol Hanson?”
The girl did not answer. A moisture began to gather in her big, blue eyes, and a tear toppled over.
Jim was all baby at once.
“Dinna greet!––there’s a good lass! Dinna greet here in the street,” he coaxed. “If it is Sol Hanson ye want, we can soon help ye to get him.”