You did not hear him speak at the door.

He said, 'I shall count on you; you cannot disappoint me.' You did not hear his voice, mother." "What else, Lucy ?" "Once, one night last winter, when I was coming home from the post-office, it was after dark, and he walked way to the house with me, and he told me a lot about himself.

He told me how all alone in the world he was, and how hard it was for a man to have nobody who really belonged to him in the wide world, and when he said good-night at the gate he held my hand--quite a while; he did, mother." "What else, Lucy ?" "You remember that picnic, the trolley picnic to Alford.

He sat next to me coming home, and--" "And what ?" "There were only--four on the seat, and he--he sat very close, and told me some more about himself: how he had been alone ever since he was a little boy, and--how hard it had been.

Then he asked how long ago father died, and if I remembered, and if I missed him still." "I don't quite understand, dear, how that--" "You didn't hear the way he spoke, mother." "What else, Lucy ?" "He has always looked at me very much across the church, and whenever I have met him it has not been so much what--he said as--his manner.
You have not known what his manner was, and you have not heard how he spoke, nor seen his eyes when--he looked at me--" "Yes, dear, you are right.