"But, Bertha," cried he (and the full bass of
his voice rang through her very soul), "have I
gone into exile and waited these many years for
so cold a welcome?"

"You have changed so much, Ralph," she
answered, with that old grave smile which he
knew so well, and stretched out both her hands
toward him. "And I have thought of you so
much since you went away, and blamed myself
because I had judged you so harshly, and wondered
that you could listen to me so patiently,
and never bear me any malice for what I said."

"If you had said a word less," declared Ralph,
seating himself at her side on the greensward,
"or if you had varnished it over with politeness,
then you would probably have failed to produce
any effect and I should not have been burdened
with that heavy debt of gratitude which
I now owe you. I was a pretty thick-skinned
animal in those days, Bertha. You said the
right word at the right moment; you gave me
a hold and a good piece of advice, which my
own ingenuity would never have suggested to
me. I will not thank you, because, in so grave
a case as this, spoken thanks sound like a mere
mockery. Whatever I am, Bertha, and whatever
I may hope to be, I owe it all to that hour."