And then, in an altered--a low, sad tone--he began a monotonous recital.
Thus they sat, he talking very steadily and she listening, until all the
neighborhood was wrapped in slumber,--all the neighbors, but not Kookoo.
Kookoo in his old age had become a great eavesdropper; his ear and eye
took turns at the keyhole that night, for he tells things that were not
intended for outside hearers. He heard the girl sobbing, and the old man
saying, "But you must go now. You cannot stay with me safely or
decently, much as I wish it. The Lord only knows how I'm to bear it, or
where you're to go; but He's your Lord, child, and He'll make a place
for you. I was your grandfather's death; I frittered your poor, dead
mother's fortune away: let that be the last damage I do.
"I have always meant everything for the best," he added half in
soliloquy.
From all Kookoo could gather, he must have been telling her the very
story just recounted. She had dropped quite to the floor, hiding her
face in her hands, and was saying between her sobs, "I cannot go, Papa
George; oh, Papa George, I cannot go!"
Just then 'Sieur George, kaving kept a good resolution all day, was
encouraged by the orphan's pitiful tones to contemplate the most
senseless act he ever attempted to commit.
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