But don't be uneasy about that, Harold dear. Don't
you think one's own flesh and blood is more than all such friends?"
"I should not have thought two fellows like us could have been worth
much to you," said Harold, gravely pondering. "That pretty little
thing who was with you the night we came; she has never been here
again. Don't you miss her?"
"It is not her fault," I said. "Besides, nothing is like the tie of
blood."
I shall never forget the look that was in Harold's eyes. I was
standing over him, putting some fresh warm water on his hand. He put
back his head and looked up earnestly in my face, as if to see
whether I meant it, then said, "We are very thankful to you for
thinking so."
I could not help bending and touching his forehead with my lips. His
eyes glistened and twinkled, but he said nothing for a little space,
and then it was, "If any one like you had been out there--"
I don't think I ever had a compliment that gave me more pleasure, for
there was somehow an infinite sense of meaning in whatever Harold
said, however short it might be, as if his words had as much force in
them as his muscles.
After a good deal more of silent sponging and some knitting of his
brows, either from thought or from pain, he said, "Then, as I
understand, you cast in your lot with us, and give us the blessing of
your presence and care of poor little Dora, to help to set Eustace in
his proper place in society.
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