There was a great distress and a great longing in his look, but Sally had her head down and she did not see it. But it was in his voice and she may have heard it. He rose impulsively from his chair and went to her quickly—it was only a step—and he sat on the arm of her chair and put his arm around her.
"Sally, dear!" he implored. "Don't cry so! Please don't."
She did not repulse him, as he had feared she would, gently, of course, but firmly; but she did not yield either. It was as if, for the moment, he was nothing to her—nothing more than a brother; not her brother, thank heaven! She only sobbed, there, for some minutes—in his arms. That was enough.
She became more quiet in time. She still had her head down upon one arm, but she was feeling up her sleeve and under her belt, searching for something.
"Forgive me, F—Fox," she said, "I didn't mean to do it, but I'm t—tired out and—and I can't find my handkerchief." She laughed a little hysterically. "Have you got one to l—lend me, Fox? I c—can't lift my head be—because I'm crying and I've cried all over your table and into your chair—"
"Drat the table! What do you suppose I care about it, Sally?"
"You—you ought to. I—it's a very pretty table."
"I value it only because it holds your tears." Fox was unfolding a handkerchief. It was a very large handkerchief. He put it into her seeking hand. "I remember another occasion when you had to borrow a handkerchief," he said. "Do you remember it, Sally?"
She nodded and began to mop her eyes. "Mercy! I—I didn't want a sheet, Fox," she said.
Fox smiled. "I didn't know. You might." His voice was not steady as he went on. "Sally," he whispered, "I—I want you. I want you!"