“I beg pardon,” said Robin in an absent manner, and he took a seat beside his sister.
Alicia went on with her kneading, and rather wondered that Robin, usually so obliging, made no offer to help her.
“Are you composing a poem in honour of the day?” asked Alicia; “or is marriage, after three years, too prosaic a subject?”
“It may be a life-long poem,” replied Robin.
“I suppose that I might take that for a compliment,” said Alicia, smiling, “but for the qualifying may. Now tell me the truth, Robin: did you not think three years ago that there was more of poetry than of wisdom in Harold’s engagement—in short, that he had made a little mistake?”
Robin smiled. “I am not bound to confess what I thought,” he replied.
“Silence often tells as much as speech. You did not think that Harold had made a little, but perhaps a great mistake,” suggested Alicia.
“Sister dear, I own that you looked to me too fine—too much of a delicate drawing-room belle to be suited for a mission Mem,” was the candid reply; “but I only proved myself to be—a donkey.”
“No, Robin; you were perfectly right,” said Alicia frankly. “My Harold did run a great risk, and I showed—well—presumption. I was far too ignorant, too weak, too self-willed, for a missionary’s wife. Had I always remained as I was when my Harold put this gold ring on my finger, I should have been utterly unfit for my position; I should have been a clog instead of a help. But I hope that I have learned something from our father’s wisdom, your plain speaking, and my dear husband’s patient love; I have also learned something from seeing my own mistakes.”
“Most of all from the Book which is our guide in every stage of our lives,” said Robin.