ed one night, in
a talk with me, that I might run it. I told them I'd stand for you in
every way, and they-- Well, haven't you noticed for the last week that
they have slid off to bed early and left you and Tilly out under the
trees or on the porch, together? Well, that was my doings. The old man
was for having you come to him and state your intentions in plain words,
but I advised him against it. I told him that you could make a speech on
internal revenue, political economy, or any other big subject to an
audience a thousand strong, but that you'd fall down in an attempt to
tell a girl's daddy that you wanted to provide her grub and clothes. I
did have a big tussle, though, to keep one certain thing out of the
discussion, and that was your religion, or rather your lack of it. He
kept saying that he wanted to know what particular brand of theology
you'd impress on his daughter at your fireside. He said he never had
failed to see women go with their husbands sooner or later, and he was
afraid you hadn't been converted yet. However, I got him quiet on that
line. I told him, you see, that while you hadn't yet made an open
profession, I knew you well enough to be sure you'd end up all right and
make as good a citizen as any man I know."

"You have heard about a certain fellow by the name of Eperson, haven't
you?" John asked, as he strove manfully to quench the glad lights in his
eyes. "Well, he and Tilly have been sweethearts ever since they were
children."

"He has, but she hasn't." Cavanaugh emphasized the "he." "I know all
about it. He is as near dead as a man can be from disappointment. She
might have thought she cared for him, at one time, but when you came all
that was off. Now I'm going home to my old woman. Talking to you on
these lines makes me want to see her mighty bad. I feel younger, and
I'll bet she will look that way to me, too. But remember this, when we
get back to Cranston, sail right in and tell Tilly how you feel. She
knows, anyway, but you tell her straight out, like a man with a load of
hay to sell, and be done with it. I want to rent this house and I'm
going to do it."

They were outside the cottage now. Cavanaugh had closed the door and was
on his knees, hiding the key under the step. John stood over him.

"I wish you knew what you are talking about, Sam," he said, and it was
the first even indirect confession of the sacred tumult within him.
"I'll say that much. I wish--I wish it could be like y