I turned round to find father's gaze fixed upon me anxiously. I couldn't make out just what it meant—it was so full of a keen yet half-puzzled inquiry; but it was tender and sympathetic, and it soothed my ruffled spirit.
"You mustn't let mother's words hurt you, child," he said, kindly. "Mother's tongue is sharp sometimes, because she puts things in plain English; but she's a wise woman, Meg, a wise woman. There are never any clouds and mists round the tract of country mother travels. She sees things straight."
"I don't believe one person can ever see for another," declared I, stoutly. "However poor my opinion may be, it's all the light I have. I can't wait twenty years to decide what to do now."
Father smiled, but sadly. "Yes, we must all fight our own fight," he said, with a sigh.
"Oh, father, I can't believe you want me to marry Squire Broderick," said I, turning from the reflective which father so loved to the practical side of the question. "You always used to say that you wouldn't like us to marry out of our station."
"My dear," he said, "there's many windows that'll let in light if we'll only open them. But sometimes we're a long while before we'll open more than one window. I dare say, if the truth were known, it wasn't all at once the squire made up his mind that he wanted to marry out of his station. We mustn't forget that, Meg. It shows he loves you truly, child, and that he's a man above the common. The squire's a good man, a good man and true. And, after all, that's more than theories and such like."
I looked up at father anxiously.
"Would you have liked to see me the squire's wife, father?" asked I.
He held out his hand, beckoning me to him, and I went and knelt down at his side.