Not for
McLean, not for the Bird Woman, not for the Duncans would Freckles have
done it--but for the Angel--if it would make her happy--he would do
anything.
"Angel," whispered Freckles, with his lips against her hair, "you
haven't learned your history book very well, or else you've forgotten."
"Forgotten what?" sobbed the Angel.
"Forgotten about the real knight, Ladybird," breathed Freckles. "Don't
you know that, if anything happened that made his lady sorry, a real
knight just simply couldn't be remembering it? Angel, darling little
Swamp Angel, you be listening to me. There was one night on the trail,
one solemn, grand, white night, that there wasn't ever any other like
before or since, when the dear Boss put his arm around me and told me
that he loved me; but if you care, Angel, if you don't want it that
way, why, I ain't remembering that anyone else ever did--not in me whole
life."
The Angel lifted her head and looked into the depths of Freckles' honest
gray eyes, and they met hers unwaveringly; but the pain in them was
pitiful.
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