“I've been a proper fool,” cried the woman, and she drew in a long breath.
“Oh, don't mind,” he begged; “it's all right. I've never had any offer for a picture that I'd rather take than yours. I know the thing can't be altogether bad after what you've said. And I'll tell you what! I'll have it photographed when I get to Boston, and I'll send you a photograph of it.”
“How much will that be?” Mrs. Durgin asked, as if taught caution by her offer for the painting.
“Nothing. And if you'll accept it and hang it up here somewhere I shall be very glad.”
“Thank you,” said Mrs. Durgin, and the meekness, the wounded pride, he fancied in her, touched him.
He did not know at first how to break the silence which she let follow upon her words. At last he said:
“You spoke, just now, about taking it with you. Of course, you don't think of leaving Lion's Head?”
She did not answer for so long a time that he thought she had not perhaps heard him or heeded what he said; but she answered, finally: “We did think of it. The day you come we had about made up our minds to leave.”
“Oh!”
“But I've been thinkin' of something since you've been here that I don't know but you'll say is about as wild as wantin' to buy a three-hundred-dollar picture with a week's board.” She gave a short, self-scornful laugh; but it was a laugh, and it relieved the tension.