"So 'twas, so 'twas," he said to himself; then to me:
"Guess we won't lose track of one 'nother again, Marcia."
"Not if I can help it, Cale; it is n't my fault that we see each other
for the first time in twenty-six years."
"So 't ain't, so 't ain't, poor little soul." I heard a catch in his
voice, but I did not spare him.
"How old was I when you left home?"
"'Bout three months, if I remember right."
"Did you ever see me--then?"
"No."
"You did n't have any interest in me?"
"Not much, I 'll own up." Then he added weakly, for he wanted to spare
me the truth by gently lying out of it, "I 've heard men don't take to
new-born babies as women do; they 're kinder soft ter handle."
"And you saw me for the first time in my life at the steamboat landing?"
"Yes--an' my knees fairly give way beneath me, for I saw Happy standin'
before me an' speakin' in the voice I remember so well."
"A long while, twenty-six years, Cale?"
"Don't, Marcia, don't rub it in so!" He was half resentful; and I,
having brought him to this point, was satisfied to relent.
"Cale," I said, withdrawing my hand and facing him, as well as I could
with my new foot appendages to steer, "I 'll forgive you for not paying
any attention to me for twenty-six years, on one condition--"
"What is thet?" His eagerness was almost pathetic.
"That you 'll take me for just what I am, who I am, Marcia Farrell--not
Happy Morey; if you don't I shall be unhappy. And you 're to love me
for myself, do you hear? Just for myself, and not because I 'm the
living image of my mother. Now don't you forget. I give you warning,
I shall be insanely jealous if you love me for anybody but myself--and
I take it for granted you _do_ love me, don't you, Cale?"
"You know I do, Marcia."