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Stratton-Porter, Gene, 1863-1924

"Freckles"

Tell me. You must tell me."
The Angel shook her head.
"That ain't fair, Angel," said Freckles. "You made me tell you when it
was like tearing the heart raw from me breast. And you was for making
everything heaven--just heaven and nothing else for me. If I'm so much
more now than I was an hour ago, maybe I can be thinking of some way to
fix things. You will be telling me?" he coaxed, moving his cheek against
her hair.
The Angel's head moved in negation. Freckles did a moment of intent
thinking.
"Maybe I can be guessing," he whispered. "Will you be giving me three
chances?"
There was the faintest possible assent.
"You didn't want me to be knowing me name," guessed Freckles.
The Angel's head sprang from the pillow and her tear-stained face flamed
with outraged indignation.
"Why, I did too!" she cried angrily.
"One gone," said Freckles calmly. "You didn't want me to have relatives,
a home, and money."
"I did!" exclaimed the Angel. "Didn't I go myself, all alone, into the
city, and find them when I was afraid as death? I did too!"
"Two gone," said Freckles.


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