And I'm kissin' her good-night--right now." And Pete grabbed
the blankets and as much of Ma Bailey as could be included in that large
armful, and kissed her heartily.
"He's changed," Ma Bailey confided to herself, after Pete had
disappeared. "Actin' like a boy--to cheer me up. But it weren't no boy
that set there readin' that letter. It was a growed man, and no wonder.
Yes, Pete's changed, bless his heart!"
Ma Bailey did not bless Pete's heart because he had changed, however, nor
because he had suffered, nor yet because he was unconsciously in love
with a little nurse in El Paso, nor yet because he kissed her, but
because she liked him: and because no amount of money or misfortune,
blame or praise, could really change him toward his friends. What Ma
Bailey meant was that he had grown a little more serious, a little more
gentle in his manner of addressing her--aside from saying good-night--and
a little more intense in a quiet way. To sum it all up, Pete had just
begun to think--something that few people do on the verdant side of
forty, and rather dread having to do on the other side of that mile-post.
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