"That's right," said he. "That's right. You know I'm so careless. The truth is--" "There you go again, John! Now why are you so particular to tell me that what you are saying to me is the truth? Just as if you ever in your life said anything which wasn't true." He did not answer, but hurriedly turned away, that the keen eyes might not examine his face too closely. She followed him. "John," said she, sharply, "tell me, what's the trouble? Tell me the truth." "I have," said he. The words choked him, and she knew it. He evaded once more the attack of her eyes, but again she followed him, her face now very pale, her lips trembling. "Boy," said she, "tell me, what is it? Is there a woman? Is there anybody?" "Nobody in all the world but you," he declared bravely. It was of no avail, and he knew it, as the keen eyes finally found his own. "John!" said his mother, "you have _not_ been telling me the truth." "Well, I know it," said he, calmly, and with far greater happiness. "Of _course_ I haven't. Who said I was? O, Lord! you can't fool a woman any way on earth. Now here--" "Who is this girl?" asked his mother, with a certain sternness as she gazed at him directly; "for of course I knew very well what was the matter. I suppose I shall have to face this some day, though it has been so long--" Eddring looked her straight in the face in return, and this time without flinching. "The dearest girl in the world," said he. "But I reckon she's not for me." "Who is she? Where is she? Where did you meet her? Have you a picture?" "I don't need one." "What's her name--her family? Of course--" "She hasn't any family. I don't know where she came from." "_John!_" "Well, it's true." "But you could not expect--" "I expect nothing!" cried he, again striking his clenched hand upon the table. "Here is my world. Oh, well, you know now if I ever swear, and why." Her lip trembled. "I never knew you did," said she. "John, tell me, have you ever spoken to her?" "Good God! no, never. How could I? What have I to offer a girl like her? Who am I? What am I?" She caught his head in her arms and drew his face down to her bosom. "There, there," said she. "There, there, now." But presently he broke from her, and swung out into the room, erect and active once more, a sudden triumph in his carriage, a brighter glance in the eye for a time grown dull. "Pshaw! Here," said he, "here I am, pitying myself! That isn't a good thing for a man to do. A man oughtn't to complain. He ought to take his medicine." "Look," he cried, coming to her again, "maybe the world is just loving me, that's all, and doesn't know. Maybe it's the same as it was when I scratched my face on your breast-pin when I was a baby, when your arms were around my neck. You did not mean it. Maybe life does not mean it. Maybe it's just _loving_ us all the time. "Come, now, you shall see this girl who is of no family. Come with me. She is here, right in town, this very day." "Where is she, John?"