While I was finding out what cocoanut and raisins and such they’d got in stock, along come Amos More, hands hanging loose like he’d lost his grip on something. I called to him, and pretended not to notice Harriet’s little look into the clock-door looking-glass, and when he come in I ’most forgot what I’d meant to say to him, it was so nice to see them two together. I never see two more in love with every look of each other’s.
“Why, Harriet!” says Amos, as if saying her name was his one way of breathing.
“Good mornin’, Amos,” Harriet says, rose-pink and looking at the back of her hand.
Amos just give me a little nice smile, and then he didn’t seem to know I was in the room. He went straight up to her and caught a-hold of the fringe of her shawl.
“Harriet,” he says, “how long have I got to go on livin’ on the sight of you through that dinin’-room window? Yes, livin’. It’s the only time I’m alive all day long—just when I see you there, signalin’ me—an’ when I know you ain’t forgot. But I can’t go on this way—I can’t, I can’t.”
“What can I do—what can I do, Amos?” she says, faint.
“Do? Chuck everything for me—if you love me enough,” says Amos, neat as a recipe.
“I owe Aunt Hettie too much,” says Hettie, firm; “I ain’t that kind—to turn on her ungrateful.”
“I know it. I love you for that too,” says Amos, “I love you on account of everything you do. And I tell you I can’t live like this much longer.”
“Well said!” I broke in, brisk; “I can help you over this day anyhow. You go on down-town, Amos, and get the stuff on this list I’ve made out, and then you come on up to Mis’ Fire Chief’s. We need a man and we need you. I’ll fix it with Eppleby.”