"An' I was the last one to see her the night she
went away. She came in here, po' thing, all shiverin' with the cold, an'
she wouldn't set down but kep' walkin' up an' down, up an' down, jest like
you've been doin' fur this last hour. Po' thing! Po' thing! I tried to make
her take a sip of brandy, but she laughed an' said she was quite warm, with
her teeth chatterin' fit to break--"
"You are very good, Mrs. Hicks," interrupted Dan, in an affected drawl
which steadied his voice, "but do you know, I'd really rather that you
wouldn't."
Her sallow face twitched and she looked wistfully up at him.
"It isn't that, Mr. Dan," she went on slowly, "but I've had trouble myself,
God knows, and when I think of that po' proud young lady, an' the way she
went, I can't help sayin' what I feel--it won't stay back. So if you'll
jest keep on here, an' give up the stage drivin' an' wait twil the old
gentleman comes round--Jack an' I'll do our best fur you--we'll do our
best, even if it ain't much."
Her lips quivered, and as he watched her it seemed to him that a new
meaning passed into her face--something that made her look like Betty and
his mother--that made all good women who had loved him look alike. For the
moment he forgot her ugliness, and with the beginning of that keener
insight into life which would come to him as he touched with humanity, he
saw only the dignity with which suffering had endowed this plain and simple
woman.
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