'No,' I said.
'And you love him?' said she.
I hesitated, for I had never told a lie in my life. My business relations with Tom had been of an entirely unsatisfactory character, and the idea of any one's loving the beery scamp presented itself in a ludicrous light. I got out of the difficulty by saying,
'I mean to love Tom very much, if I can.'
The answer did not appear to be entirely satisfactory to the little girl, but it soon seemed to pass from her mind.
That was the most delightful afternoon I had ever spent in my life. We seemed to become old friends in a few minutes, and in an hour or two she was the closest friend I had on earth. Not all the little shoeless friends in Raxton, not all the beautiful sea-gulls I loved, not all the sunshine and wind upon the sands, not all the wild bees in Graylingham Wilderness, could give the companionship this child could give. My flesh tingled with delight. (And yet all the while I was not Hal the conqueror of ragamuffins, but Hal the cripple!)
'Shall we go and get some strawberries?' she said, as we passed to the back of the house. 'They are quite ripe.'
But my countenance fell at this. I was obliged to tell her that I could not stoop.
'Ah! but I can, and I will pluck them and give them to you. I should like to do it. Do let me, there's a good boy.'
I consented, and hobbled by her side to the verge of the strawberry-beds. But when I foolishly tried to follow her, I stuck ignominiously, with my crutches sunk deep in the soft mould of rotten leaves. Here was a trial for the conquering hero of the coast. I looked into her face to see if there was not, at last, a laugh upon it. That cruel human laugh was my only dread. To everything but ridicule I had hardened myself; but against that I felt helpless.