“Time enough then for consideration of your duty.”
“I am very glad I am twenty-one,” said Joan. She slipped her arm through George Rutherford’s, and looked up with loving eyes. “And you know she gave me to you, father, to be your very own.”
“Yes. Even if she were living, which seems most improbable, she would hardly demand you again as a right, until I grow tired of you.”
“And you’ll never, never do that, father!”
“Hardly,” George said, with a little smile.
“Only there was that old man—it frightened me seeing him. But he hasn’t written or said anything, so perhaps, even if he does think we may be related, he doesn’t want me. If he did I would not go to him. I couldn’t live without you, father!”
George hardly knew whether to answer this lightly or seriously. He said at length only—
“Until—”
“No, not ‘until’ anything, father. I shall never want to leave you; and I shall never marry. I only want to live with you, and be your child and friend always—always—always.”
“But, Joan, life does not last always.”