He made a move as if to come to her side and then,
hesitating, remained where he was.
"I--I'd like to help you, Thank--er--Mrs. Barnes," he faltered,
earnestly. "I like to fust-rate, if--if I could. Ain't there--is there
anything I could do to help? Course you understand I ain't nosin' in
on your affairs, but, if you feel like tellin' me, maybe I--Look
here, 'tain't nothin' to do with that cussed Holliday Kendrick or his
meanness, is it?"
Thankful shook her head. "No," she said, "it isn't that. I've been
expectin' that and I'd have been ready for anything he might do--or
try to do. But I wasn't expectin' THIS. How COULD anybody expect it? I
thought he was dead. I thought sure he must be dead. Why, it's six year
since he--and now he's alive, and he wants--What SHALL I do?"
Captain Obed took a step forward.
"Now, Mrs. Barnes," he begged, "I wish you would--that is, you know if
you feel like it I--well, here I am. Can't I do SOMETHIN'?"
Thankful turned and looked at him. She was torn between an intense
desire to make a confidant of someone and her habitual tendency to keep
her personal affairs to herself. The desire overcame the habit.
"Cap'n Bangs," she said, suddenly, "I will tell you I've just got to
tell somebody. If he was just writin' to say he was all right and alive,
I shouldn't. I'd just be grateful and glad and say nothin'. But the poor
thing is poverty-struck and friendless, or he says he is, and he wants
money. And--and I haven't got any money just now.
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