He understood how very hard it must have been for her to
write that letter to him, a letter in which she justified his course
at the cost of her own father's honor. He longed to tell her that he
understood and appreciated.
At last he could not resist the temptation.
"Miss Warren," he said, "please excuse my speaking of this, but I must;
I must thank you for writing me as you did. It was not necessary, it
was too much to expect, too hard a thing for you to do. It makes me feel
guilty. I--"
"Please don't!" she interrupted. "Don't speak in that way. It was right.
It was what I should have done long ago."
"But it was not necessary; I understood. I knew you had heard another
version of the story and that you felt I had been ungrateful and mean,
to say the least, in my conduct toward your father. I knew that; I have
never blamed you. And you writing as you did--"
"I did it for my uncle's sake," she broke in, quickly. "You are his
closest friend."
"I know, but I appreciate it, nevertheless. I--I wish you would consider
me your friend as well as his. I do, sincerely."
"Thank you. I need friends, I know. I have few now, which is not
strange," rather bitterly.
He protested earnestly. "I did not mean it in that way," he said. "It
is an honor and a great privilege to be one of your friends.
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