He only laughed his defiance. Now lend me your own hand. My boys buy them with beads or bolts of calico of mine. His voice had broken. I love everything to-day, and all of you, but I love this, this—this innocence upon us most of all. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. Every now and then something familiar in her tone, the poise of her head, the play of her eyes startled him. But he was at last persuaded that I mean you no harm, and that I might—just possibly, since I am both a gentleman and a major of militia—be able to be of more assistance to you than he himself. So far as I'm concerned, nothing could please me more. Her aunt had a once exasperating habit of interrupting her work with demands for small household services, but now Ann Veronica rendered them with a queer readiness of anticipatory propitiation.
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