"I do love him," I sobbed. "And oh—I don't know how to bear it!"
"Catch me, when I was a girl, saying I loved a man before he'd said he loved me!" I heard mother mutter to herself. "Whatever has come over the girls nowadays! Not a scrap of proper self-respect."
But she touched my hand again, and patted it.
"Come! you've got to be brave," says she. "I wouldn't give in too easy."
"I do mean—to try," I managed to say.
"Yes, I'm sure you do," says she. And she walked me back along the path, and then again to the end, and back a second time.
How quiet and natural everything did seem! Looking back to that hour, it is wonderful to me to think of us two, loitering out to and fro, getting the fresh air, and having our talk, with never so much as a fancy of what was just about to happen.
Isn't that how we go through life: step by step onward, none of us able ever to see where the next step will land us? If it wasn't for the thought of a Father's Hand over all, managing and arranging for us, we should have good reason to be frightened.
Sometimes one does get frightened trying to peer ahead. But it was not so with me just then. Nothing was farther from my mind than the fear of any fresh trouble. It seemed to me I had enough to bear.
I was stepping along slowly beside mother, gazing down on the ground, when suddenly mother stopped short, and I heard such a strange sound from her! It was as if she wanted to speak, and couldn't. I looked up quick, thinking she must be taken ill; and she was the most extraordinary colour, not white, nor grey, but a mixture of both, and her lips parted and stiff.