"He is getting thinner. He does not laugh as he used to; and he does not dance as much as he did. Oh, Miss Kennedy, can you not take pity on him?"
"Nelly, you have not told me whom you mean. Nay," as with a sudden change of tone she threw her arms about Nelly's neck and kissed her, "nay. I know very well whom you mean, my dear."
"I have not offended you?"
"No, you have not offended me. But, Nelly, answer me one question—answer it truthfully. Do you, from your own heart, wish me to take pity on him?"
Nelly answered frankly and truthfully:
"Yes; because how can I wish anything but what will make you happy? Oh, how can any of us help wishing that; and he is the only man who can make you happy. And he loves you."
"You want him to love me for my sake; for my own sake. Nelly, dear child, you humble me."
But Nelly did not understand. She had secretly offered up her humble sacrifice—her pair of turtledoves; and she knew not that her secret was known.
"She loves him herself," Angela was thinking, "and she gives him up for my sake."
"He is not," Nelly went on—as if she could by any words of hers persuade Angela—"he is not like any of the common workmen. See how he walks, and how independent he is, and he talks like a gentleman. And he can do all the things that gentlemen learn to do. Who is there among us all that he could look at, except you?"