'You do not love me, Lucy?' he said reproachfully, when he found that all other arguments failed to move her.
'No,' she said sadly, 'I do not love you enough. I never, never could love you enough to marry you for yourself. I should have married you for—for the sake of your position—it is a great thing to be mistress of a college lodge—and, and I wanted a home, and to be taken care of—and loved—and I had nothing to give in return.'
It took a long time to convince the Master of St. Benedict's that Lucy hadn't accepted him for himself. He hadn't looked in the glass lately, or his eyes had grown dim—he hadn't seen that the brown locks of his youth were turning gray, and that he was getting bald, and fat, and florid. There were plenty of women in the world who would have loved him for himself still; there was a dear woman in the adjoining room who had loved him for twenty years, and who would go on loving him in spite of his baldness—who rather preferred it, indeed.
The Master couldn't conceal from himself that the girl really desired to be free. Her words, her eyes, her manner, all showed him that she desired to break off her engagement. He had no alternative but to give her the release she sought.
A COLLEGE 'PERPENDICULAR.'
A whole year had passed. There was quite time enough in a year for things to straighten themselves—for things that had gone wrong to get right again.
One thing that had once threatened to go wrong—very wrong—had righted itself. The new mistress of the lodge of St. Benedict's was in her right place.