While Vibbard was talking, Silverthorn had risen, as if interested, and now stood with his arm stretched on the cheap, painted wooden mantelpiece above the empty grate of his meagre room. Vibbard noticed that he looked pale; and it suddenly struck him that his friend might have suffered from poverty, and that his health was perhaps weakening. A gush of the old-time love suddenly came up from his heart, though he said nothing.
“You know I always told you,” Silverthorn began,—he paused and waited an instant,—“I always told you she was the woman for you.”
“Indeed I know it, old boy,” said Vibbard, heartily.
He rose, came to his old college-mate and took hold of his disengaged arm with both hands, affectionately.
“Look here,” he added; “there’s been something queer and dismal about seeing each other, after such a long interval,—something awkward about this settlement between us. If I’ve done anything to hurt your feelings, Thorny, I’m sorry. Let’s make an end of the trouble here and now, and be to each other just as we used to be. What do you say?”
“I say you’re a good, true-hearted fellow, as you always were, and I want you to promise that we shall keep up our old feeling forever.”
“There’s no need of any promise but this,” said Vibbard, as they clasped hands.
“Now, tell me one thing,” resumed Silverthorn; “did it never occur to you, in all these six years, that I, who have been living in the daily company of the girl you love, might cross your prospect?”
For a second or two Vibbard’s eyelids, which fell powerless while he listened, remained shut, and a shock of pain seemed to strike downward from the brain, across his face and through his whole stalwart frame.
“It’s your turn to hurt me,” he said, slowly, as he looked at his friend again. “Have you any idea how that bare suggestion cut into me?”