them, he loved specially, he loved without that outbreak of show which
is often found in persons who love but a few, and whose love is
defiled with partisanship. He loved quietly and constantly, in a
fashion as active as undemonstrative. He was always glad to be near
those he specially loved; beyond that, the signs of his love were
practical--it came out in ministration, in doing things for
them. There are those who, without loving, desire to be loved, because
they love themselves; for those that are worth least are most precious
to themselves. But Clare never thought of the love of others to
him--from no heartlessness, but that he did not think about
himself--had never done so, at least, until the moment when he fled
from the farm with the new agony in his heart that nobody wanted him,
that everybody would be happier without him. Happy is he that does not
think of himself before the hour when he becomes conscious of the
bliss of being loved. For it must be and ought to be a happy moment
when one learns that another human creature loves him; and not to be
grateful for love is to be deeply selfish. Clare had always loved, but
had not thought of any one as loving him, or of himself as being loved
by any one.

"Well," rejoined Clare, struggling with his misery, "ain't I going
myself?"

"You going!--That's chaff!"

"'Tain't chaff. I'm on my way."

"What! Going to hook it? Oh golly! what a lark! Won't Farmer
Goodenough look blue!"