In what form of expression his feelings would have found a vent, it is impossible to say.

Nor is it necessary: for, before a syllable occurred to him, Dolly Varden came running into the room, in tears, threw herself on Joe's breast without a word of explanation, and clasped her white arms round his neck.
'Dolly!' cried Joe.

'Dolly!' 'Ay, call me that; call me that always,' exclaimed the locksmith's little daughter; 'never speak coldly to me, never be distant, never again reprove me for the follies I have long repented, or I shall die, Joe.' 'I reprove you!' said Joe.
'Yes--for every kind and honest word you uttered, went to my heart.

For you, who have borne so much from me--for you, who owe your sufferings and pain to my caprice--for you to be so kind--so noble to me, Joe--' He could say nothing to her.

Not a syllable.