Jim paused with his trousers half on. "She's the
gallantest little soul God ever made!" he cried.
"Loudon, I'd meant to knock you up last night, and I
hope you won't take it unfriendly that I didn't. I
went in and looked at you asleep; and I saw you were
all broken up, and let you be. The news would keep,
anyway; and even you, Loudon, couldn't feel it the same
way as I did."
"What news?" I asked.
"It's this way," says Jim. "I told her how we stood,
and that I backed down from marrying. 'Are you tired
of me?' says she: God bless her! Well, I explained the
whole thing over again, the chance of smash, your
absence unavoidable, the point I made of having you for
the best man, and that. 'If you're not tired of me, I
think I see one way to manage,' says she. "Let's get
married to-morrow, and Mr. Loudon can be best man
before he goes to sea." That's how she said it, crisp
and bright, like one of Dickens's characters. It was
no good for me to talk about the smash. 'You'll want
me all the more,' she said. Loudon, I only pray I can
make it up to her; I prayed for it last night beside
your bed, while you lay sleeping--for you, and Mamie
and myself; and--I don't know if you quite believe in
prayer, I'm a bit Ingersollian myself--but a kind of
sweetness came over me, and I couldn't help but think
it was an answer.
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