Old Mr. Rushleigh saw something in this that began to seem to him more than mere maidenly shyness.
By and by, Margaret called her brother to sing with her.
"Come, Faithie," said Paul, drawing her gently by the hand. "I can't sing unless you go, too."
Faith went; more, it seemed, of his will, than her own.
"How does that appear to you?" said Mr. Rushleigh to his wife. "Is it all right? Does the child care for Paul?"
"Care!" exclaimed the mother, almost surprised into too audible speech. "How can she help caring? And hasn't it grown up from childhood with them? What put such a question into your head? I should as soon think of doubting whether I cared for you."
It was easier for the father to doubt, jealously, for his son, than for the mother to conceive the possibility of indifference in the woman her boy had chosen.
"Besides," added Mrs. Rushleigh, "why, else, should she have accepted him? I know Faith Gartney is not mercenary, or worldly ambitious."
"I am quite sure of that, as well," answered her husband. "It is no doubt of her motive or her worth—I can't say it is really a doubt of anything; but, Gertrude, she must not marry the boy unless her whole heart is in it! A sharp stroke is better than a lifelong pain."
"I'm sure I can't tell what has come over you! She can't ever have thought of anybody else! And she seems quite one of ourselves."