"No," she said, with a smile, "I like to hear it: go on. What ought I to do?"
"Ah, that I cannot tell you. But I think you give yourself almost too much to others. Surely, no one could object if you took a little time from the interests of the rest of the family for your own pleasure, for your studies, your amusements?"
"No," she answered, quietly, "I do not suppose they would."
She stood and looked into the fire, and the smile again crossed her face.
"I have said more than I ought to have done," repeated Brian. "Forgive me."
"I will forgive you for everything," she said, "except for thinking that one can do too much for the people that one loves. I am sure that you do not act upon that principle, Mr. Stretton."
"It can be carried to an extreme, like any other," said Mr. Stretton, wisely.
"And you think I carry it to an extreme? Oh, no. I only do what it is a pleasure to me to do. Think of the situation: an orphaned, penniless girl—that is what you have said to yourself is it not——?"
"Yes," said Brian, wondering a little at the keen inquiry in her eyes as she paused for the reply. The questioning look was lost in a lovely smile as she proceeded; she cast down her eyes to hide the expression of pleasure and amusement that his words had caused.
"An orphaned, penniless girl, then, cast on the charity of friends who were then not very well able to support her, educated by them, loved by them—does she not owe them a great debt, Mr. Stretton? What would have become of me without my uncle's care? And, now that I am able to repay them a little—in various ways"—she hesitated as she spoke—"ought I not to do my best to please them? Ought I not to give them as much of myself as they want? Make a generous answer, and tell me that I am right."