THE GIRL IN HIS HOUSE
"Always remember," she said, "whenever you feel the call of it, come, whether I am here or not. Just come. Oh, how beautiful it is! Your father and mother—" She stopped; there were tears in her eyes. "Is there anything you would like—anything you used to be fond of?"
He smiled. "This old copy of Tom Sawyer. It was the first real book my mother ever gave me. You might let me have that."
"It is yours. I feel dreadfully guilty about something, and I cannot tell just what it is, I feel as if I had stolen something."
"You mustn't feel like that on my account. I never expected to return to America to live." He looked at his watch. "Half after eleven, and I'm due at the office."
She went to the door with him. Then she ran back to the window and watched him march down the street, the copy of Tom Sawyer tucked under his arm. She went into the library again and picked up the photograph of her father. Suddenly she fell upon her knees; her forehead touched
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