Miss Eunice began to
open her eyes, and she released the mantel. The man resumed with
something like impressiveness:
"When you last held that," said he, slowly, balancing the glove in his
hand, "I was a wicked man with bad intentions through and through. When
I first held it I became an honest man, with good intentions."
A burning blush of shame covered Miss Eunice's face and neck.
"An' as I kep' it my intentions went on improvin' and improvin', till I
made up my mind to behave myself in future, forever. Do you
understand?--forever. No backslidin', no hitchin', no slippin'-up. I
take occasion to say, miss, that I was beset time and again; that the
instant I set my foot outside them prison-gates, over there, my old
chums got round me; but I shook my head. 'No,' says I, 'I won't go back
on the glove.'"
Miss Eunice hung her head. The two had exchanged places, she thought;
she was the criminal and he the judge.
"An' what is more," continued he, with the same weight in his tone, "I
not only kep' sight of the glove, but I kep' sight of the generous
sperrit that gave it. I didn't let _that_ go. I never forgot what you
meant. I knowed--I knowed," repeated he, lifting his forefinger--"I
knowed a time would come when there wouldn't be any enthoosiasm, any
'hurrah,' and then perhaps you'd be sorry you was so kind to me; an' the
time did come.
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