In its place there
was gentle understanding.
With a little smile, Helen sat down on the top step of the porch and
motioned him to a seat beside her. "Won't you tell me about it, John?"
she said, softly.
"Tell you about what, Helen?"
"About everything--your life, your work, your friends." She made a
little gesture toward the cottage next door.
They could see the white gable through the screen of tangled boughs.
"What is it that has changed you so?" she went on. "Your interests are
so different now. You are so happy and contented--so--so alive--and
I"--her voice broke--"I feel as if you were going away off somewhere
and leaving me behind. I am so miserable. John, won't you tell me about
things?"
"You poor old girl!" exclaimed John with true brotherly affection.
"I've been a blind fool. I ought to have seen. That's nearly always the
way, though, I guess," he went on, reflectively. "A fellow gets so
darned interested trying to make things go right outside his own home
that he forgets to notice how the people that he really loves most of
all are getting along. It looks as though I have not been doing so much
better than poor old Sam Whaley, after all."
He paused and seemed to be following his thoughts into fields where
only he could go.
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