"That's right. You're a brave girl," said he, with a smile. "But you see, when I'm gone, there'll be nobody but you to take care of mother."
"Doctors are often wrong," murmured I, faintly.
"Yes, yes, so they are," answered father, "and I may last many a year yet; but if it were possible, I want to be prepared—I want some one else to be prepared. Perhaps I've done wrong to tell you, Meg. Perhaps it's too heavy a burden for a young heart."
"No, no," cried I, eagerly, though in truth I was frozen with a terrible fear. "I like you to trust me—I like to think you lean upon me."
"I do trust you," repeated he, resting his hand upon my head in that way that he sometimes had. And then he added, "And I trust Squire Broderick too."
I was silent. I began to see his drift.
"The squire will always be our friend," I said. "He has told me so."
"I'm sure of that," replied my father; "but don't you see, Meg, that if the squire wants to marry you, it will be difficult for him to be just the same to you as he has always been."
"Will it?" said I, doubtfully.
"I'm afraid it might be so," answered he; "but of course that must make no difference. I can't teach you what to do in this matter. Nobody can teach you. You must do what your heart tells you. But you're a young lass yet, and if ever you come to think differently of the thing, remember what I said to you to-day, dear, and don't let any fancied pride stand in your way. Where hearts are true and honest, there's no such thing as pride; I learn that the older I grow."