Then her eyes were lifted a
little, and, though they did not meet his, he saw them, and a strange,
frightened glory leaped in his heart. Her voice fell still lower and two
heavy tears rolled down her cheeks. "It was signed," she whispered, "it
was signed--'H. Fisbee.'"
He began to tremble from head to foot. There was a long silence. She had
turned quite away from him. When he spoke, his voice was as low as hers,
and he spoke as slowly as she had.
"You mean--then--it was--you?"
"Yes."
"You!"
"Yes."
"And you have been here all the time?"
"All--all except the week you were--hurt, and that--that one evening."
The bright veil which wrapped them was drawn away, and they stood in the
silent, gathering dusk.
He tried to loosen his neck-band; it seemed to be choking him. "I--I
can't--I don't comprehend it. I am trying to realize what it----"
"It means nothing," she answered.
"There was an editorial, yesterday," he said, "an editorial that I thought
was about Rodney McCune. Did you write it?"
"Yes."
"It was about--me--wasn't it?"
"Yes."
"It said--it said--that I had won the love of every person in Carlow
County."
Suddenly she found her voice. "Do not misunderstand me," she said rapidly.
"I have done the little that I have done out of gratitude." She faced him
now, but without meeting his eyes.
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