“Ah,” mused the man, “I know him well. He is a prince—one of God’s own. Somewhat quiet now, I find, but he was always rather reserved, his life made him so; he was such a kid when he began to support them all—the mother and the girls, you know. But he worked along, going to night school—always ready, always courageous. My father used to say he’d give all his four boys for that one. We never worked much, you know. I suppose those who don’t know him call him stern, but he has carried a pretty heavy load all his life, and that sobers a man and takes the spring out of him—of course you know, though.”
But the woman said nothing. The man paused, regarding her a moment, then he let his gaze follow hers.
“I was thinking of the fountain,” she said; “how it once flashed and sang and played—and now——”
“And now,” said the man, “it is silent and cold—but the bright water is there still, and when the spring comes back it will leap forth again. It reminds me of my friend of whom we were just speaking—your husband. All the glow and life are still in his heart, and you will waken them. I said when you were married, that he needed just that—a union with a rich, sunny nature like your own, to teach him all that he had missed, and give back to him all that he had lost.”
Her, lashes fell slowly, and she stroked her muff with one white hand.
The man spoke on, musingly. “I suppose even you do not realize the good he does—the help he gives to others. He doesn’t talk of himself—he never did—even to you, I suppose? No? It is like him, he was always so. It was—it was in the cemetery I saw him this morning. I—when I come home—I always go there—my mother is there, you remember—I found him by—by your little boy. He was talking, with the sexton when I came up. It seems the grass didn’t grow about the little fellow’s—bed. The man admitted that his own little folks were accustomed to play there—the lot is shady and close to the house—they bring their toys and frolic there till the grass is quite worn away. You should have seen his face when the man told him that. ‘Let them come,’ he said; ‘don’t stop them; the grass doesn’t matter.’ ‘The boy won’t be so lonely,’ said he to me. ‘It seems so far away out here—and he all by himself—he was such a little chap—I sort of feel one of us ought to stay with him—at night.’”
The woman raised her eyes to his face. “Ah,” she said, softly, “did he—did he say that?”
“Yes—and it goes to show, what you doubtless know better than I, how deep and true and tender he is beneath it all. Shan’t I lay this coat more about you? I think the air has grown chillier.”
“No, thank you,” she said, rising. “Yes, it is chillier.”
The man rose also. She stood a moment—her hand on the little gate, her eyes grown dark and deep. He waited at her side.