"Oh, you naughty, naughty dear!" cried Annie, as she threw herself into
his arms, rejoicing. But at sight of his worn and pallid face the smile
faded from hers, and she thought, "What can have befallen him?"
His lip quivered, and, seeking with a watery smile to reassure her, he
gave way and burst into tears. Unmanly of him, no doubt, but what is a
man to do when he cannot help it? And where is a man to weep if not on
his wife's bosom? Call this behavior un-English, if you will; for,
indeed, Hector was in many ways other than English, and, I protest,
English ways are not all human. But I will not allow that it manifested
any weakness, or necessarily involved shame to him; the best of men, and
the strongest--yea, the one Man whose soul harbored not an atom of
self-pity--upon one occasion wept, I think because he could not persuade
the women whom he loved and would fain console to take comfort in his
Father. Annie, for one reverent moment, turned her head aside, then
threw her arms about him, and hid her glowing face in his bosom.
"There's only me in the house, dear," she said, and led the way to their
room.
When they reached it, she closed the door, and turned to him.
"So they won't take your story?" she said, assuming the fact, with a
sad, sunny smile.
"They refused it absolutely."
"Well, never mind! I shall go out charing to-morrow. You have no notion
how strong I am. It is well for you I have never wanted to beat you.
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