With the exception of what Eunice had said, these were the first words of sympathy Ethelyn had heard, and her tears flowed at once, while her slight form shook with such a tempest of sobs that Andy was alarmed, and getting down on his knees beside her, begged of her to tell him what was the matter.  Had he hurt her feelings? he was such a blunderin’ critter, he never knew the right thing to say, and if she liked he’d go straight off downstairs.

“No, Anderson,” Ethelyn said, “you have not hurt my feelings, and I do not wish you to go, but, oh, I am so wretched and so disappointed, too!”

“About goin’ to Washington, you mean?” Andy asked, resuming his chair, and his attitude of earnest inquiry, while Ethelyn, forgetting all her reserve, replied:  “Yes, I mean that and everything else.  It has been nothing but disappointment ever since I left Chicopee, and I sometimes wish I had died before I promised to go away from dear Aunt Barbara’s, where I was so happy.”

“What made you promise, then?  I suppose, though, it was because you loved Dick so much,” simple-minded Andy said, trying to remember if there was not a passage somewhere which read, “For this cause shall a man leave father and mother and cleave unto his wife, and they twain shall be one flesh.”

Ethelyn would not wound Andy by telling him how little love had had to do with her unhappy marriage, and she remained silent for a moment, while Andy continued, “Be you disappointed here—­with us, I mean, and the fixins?”

“Yes, Anderson, terribly disappointed.  Nothing is as I supposed.  Richard never told me what I was to expect,” Ethelyn replied, without stopping to consider what she was saying.

For a moment Andy looked intently at her, as if trying to make out her meaning.  Then, as it in part dawned upon him, he said sorrowfully:  “Sister Ethie, if it’s me you mean, I was more to blame than Dick, for I asked him not to tell you I was—­a—­a—­wall, I once heard Miss Captain Simmons say I was Widder Markham’s fool,” and Andy’s chin quivered as he went on:  “I ain’t a fool exactly, for I don’t drool or slobber like Tom Brown the idiot, but I have a soft spot in my head, and I didn’t want you to know it, for fear you wouldn’t like me.  Daisy did, though, and Daisy knew what I was and called me ‘dear Andy,’ and kissed me when she died.”

Andy was crying softly now, and Ethelyn was crying with him.  The hard feeling at her heart was giving way, and she could have put her arms around this childish man, who after a moment continued:  “Dick said he wouldn’t tell you, so you must forgive him for that.  You’ve found me out, I s’pose.  You know I ain’t like Jim, nor John, and I can’t hold a candle to old Dick, but sometimes I’ve hope you liked me a little, even if you do keep calling me Anderson.  I wish you wouldn’t; seems as if folks think more of me when they say ‘Andy’ to me.”

“Oh, Andy, dear Andy,” Ethelyn exclaimed:  “I do like you so much—­like you best of all.  I did not mean you when I said I was disappointed.”