Breen, who
have given him back to me. And daddy feels the same way about it;
and he is going to tell you so the minute he sees you," she
insisted. "He has sent you a lot of messages, he says, but they do
not count. Please, now. won't you let me thank you?"
Jack raised his head. He had been fingering a tassel on the end of
the sofa, missing all the play of feeling in her eyes, taking in
nothing but the changes that she rang on that one word
"gratitude." Gratitude!--when he loved the ground she stepped on.
But he must face the issue fairly now:
"No,--I don't want you to thank me," he answered simply.
"Well, what do you want, then?" She was at sea now,--compass and
rudder gone,--wind blowing from every quarter at once,--she trying
to reach the harbor of his heart while every tack was taking her
farther from port. If the Scribe had his way the whole coast of
love would be lighted and all rocks of doubt and misunderstanding
charted for just such hapless lovers as these two. How often a
twist of the tiller could send them into the haven of each other's
arms, and yet how often they go ashore and stay ashore and worse
still, stay ashore all their lives.
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