experienced a momentary pang of shame that he should walk so uncouthly.
The sweat burst through the skin of his forehead in tiny beads, and he
paused and mopped his bronzed face with his handkerchief.

"Hold on, Arthur, my boy," he said, attempting to mask his anxiety with
facetious utterance. "This is too much all at once for yours truly. Give
me a chance to get my nerve. You know I didn't want to come, an' I guess
your fam'ly ain't hankerin' to see me neither."

"That's all right," was the reassuring answer. "You mustn't be
frightened at us. We're just homely people--Hello, there's a letter for
me."

He stepped back to the table, tore open the envelope, and began to read,
giving the stranger an opportunity to recover himself. And the stranger
understood and appreciated. His was the gift of sympathy, understanding;
and beneath his alarmed exterior that sympathetic process went on. He
mopped his forehead dry and glanced about him with a controlled face,
though in the eyes there was an expression such as wild animals betray
when they fear the trap. He was surrounded by the unknown, apprehensive
of what might happen, ignorant of what he should do, aware that he walked
and bore himself awkwardly, fearful that every attribute and power of him
was similarly afflicted. He was keenly sensitive, hopelessly
self-conscious, and the amused glance that the other stole privily at him
over the top of the letter burned into him like a dagger-thrust. He saw
the glance, but he gave no sign, for among the things he had learned was
discipline. Also, that dagger-thrust went to his pride. He cursed
himself for having come, and at the same time resolved that, happen what
would, having come, he would carry it through. The lines of his face
hardened, and into his eyes came a fighting light. He looked about more