And as for Peter! Had he not been a continuous joy; cheering
everybody; telling MacFarlane funny stories until that harassed
invalid laughed himself, unconscious of the pain to his arm;
bringing roses for the prim, wizened-up Miss Bolton, that she
might have a glimpse of something fresh and alive while she sat by
her brother's bed. And last, and by no means least, had he not the
morning he had left for New York, his holiday being over, taken
Ruth in his arms and putting his lips close to her ear, whispered
something into its pink shell that had started northern lights
dancing all over her cheeks and away up to the roots of her hair;
and had she not given him a good hug and kissed him in return, a
thing she had never done in her whole life before? And had he not
stopped on his way to the station for a last hand-shake with Jack
and to congratulate him for the hundredth time for his plucky
rescue of MacFarlane--a subject he never ceased to talk about--
and had he not at the very last moment, told Jack every word of
what he and Ruth talked about, with all the details elaborated,
even to the hug, which was no sooner told than another set of
northern lights got into action at once, and another hug followed;
only this time it took the form of a hearty hand-shake and a pat
on Peter's back, followed by a big tear which the boy tried his
best to conceal? Peter had no theories detrimental to penniless
young gentlemen, pursued by intermeddling old ladies.
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