“Mercy, Martin! You ain’t sick?”
“No.”
“But you must be hungry.”
“No. I’m not.”
Still the woman lingered; then making a heroic plunge, she faltered:
“There—there ain’t nothin’ the matter, is there?”
So genuine was the sympathy beneath the quavering inquiry that it brought to Martin’s troubled heart a gratifying sense of warmth and fellowship.
“No,” he said, his impatience melting to gentleness. “Don’t worry, Jane. I’ve just got to do a little thinking by myself, that’s all.”
“It ain’t money you’re fussin’ over then,” said his sister, with a sigh of relief.
“No—no, indeed. It’s nothin’ to do with money.”