Hugh Garth was the only relation
I ever had in the world that spoke kind to me. Remember how I used
to run over from my folks to tuck you into bed in your little room
above the shop, Pete? No, you were too little."
"Of course, I remember," the boy replied. "The ankle's fine now,
Bella. Let up. I can't stand that rubbing. Let me stick the foot up
on another chair. There--that's great. It doesn't hurt near so bad
now. I remember Hugh's bookshop; yes, I do--honest! I remember sitting
on the ladder and listening to him talk to the students when they
came in. He always was a gorgeous talker, Bella. They used to stand
around and listen to his yarns like kids to a fairy story. Just the
same as you and I do now--when we can get him into a good humor. But,
you know, he used to like strangers best--to talk to, I mean."
Bella assented, bitterly. She had begun to clear the table of its
almost untouched meal. "Because he could put it over better with a
stranger. It isn't the _truth_ Hugh likes--about himself, or others."
Pete had begun to whittle a piece of wood. He was a charming figure,
slouching down in his chair, slim and graceful, his shapely golden
head ruffled, his chin pressed against his chest.
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