He did the most sensible thing he could, under all the circumstances;
changed his address to Aberdeen, where he had an aunt living. But
the story followed him. No woman would be seen speaking to him. One
admiring glance from Hapgood would send the prettiest girls home
weeping to their mothers. Later on he fell in love--hopelessly,
madly in love. But he dared not tell her--dared not let a living
soul guess it. That was the only way he could show it. It is not
sufficient, in this world, to want to do good; there's got to be a
knack about it.
There was a man I met in Colorado, one Christmas-time. I was on a
lecturing tour. His idea was to send a loving greeting to his wife
in New York. He had been married nineteen years, and this was the
first time he had been separated from his family on Christmas Day.
He pictured them round the table in the little far-away New England
parlour; his wife, his sister-in-law, Uncle Silas, Cousin Jane, Jack
and Willy, and golden-haired Lena. They would be just sitting down
to dinner, talking about him, most likely; wishing he were among
them. They were a nice family and all fond of him. What joy it
would give them to know that he was safe and sound; to hear the very
tones of his loved voice speaking to them! Modern science has made
possible these miracles. True, the long-distance telephone would
cost him five dollars; but what is five dollars weighed against the
privilege of wafting happiness to an entire family on Christmas Day!
We had just come back from a walk.
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