There was a subtle resemblance which
lay deeper than the features between him and Richard Alger. Sylvia
saw it, and he saw his own self reflected as Richard Alger in that
straining mental vision of hers which exceeded the spiritual one.
"Can't you forgive me, an'--come again the way--you used to?" Sylvia
panted out. "I couldn't get home before, that night, nohow. I
couldn't, Richard--'twas the night Charlotte an' Barney fell out.
They had a dreadful time. I had to stay there. It wa'n't my fault.
If Barney had come back, I could have got here in season; but poor
Charlotte was settin' out there all alone on the doorstep, an' her
father wouldn't let her in, an' Sarah took on so I had to stay. I
thought I should die when I got back an' found out you'd been here
an' gone. Ain't you goin' to forgive me, Richard?"
Barney suddenly removed his arm from Sylvia's waist, pushed her
clinging hands away, and stood up again. "Now, Miss Crane," he said,
"I've got to tell you. You've got to listen, and take it in. I am
not Richard Alger; I am Barney Thayer."
"What?" Sylvia said, feebly, looking up at him. "I don't know what
you say, Richard; I wish you'd say it again."
"I ain't Richard Alger; I am Barney Thayer," repeated Barney, in a
loud, distinct voice. Sylvia's straining, questioning eyes did not
leave his face. "You made a mistake," said Barney.
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