Then she cried most bitterly, and that made up my mind.
While my mind had been in an unsettled state about her favouring this
young man, I had felt that unreasonable towards Pickleson, that it was
well for him he had got his legacy down. For I often thought, "If it
hadn't been for this same weak-minded giant, I might never have come to
trouble my head and wex my soul about the young man." But, once that I
knew she loved him,--once that I had seen her weep for him,--it was a
different thing. I made it right in my mind with Pickleson on the spot,
and I shook myself together to do what was right by all.
She had left the young man by that time (for it took a few minutes to get
me thoroughly well shook together), and the young man was leaning against
another of the fir-trees,--of which there was a cluster,--with his face
upon his arm. I touched him on the back. Looking up and seeing me, he
says, in our deaf-and-dumb talk, "Do not be angry."
"I am not angry, good boy. I am your friend. Come with me."
I left him at the foot of the steps of the Library Cart, and I went up
alone. She was drying her eyes.
"You have been crying, my dear."
"Yes, father."
"Why?"
"A headache."
"Not a heartache?"
"I said a headache, father."
"Doctor Marigold must prescribe for that headache."
She took up the book of my Prescriptions, and held it up with a forced
smile; but seeing me keep still and look earnest, she softly laid it down
again, and her eyes were very attentive.
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