"Ay, I do like the young man," agreed father, stanchly. "I can't help it. They're precious few such as he whose heads are full of aught but seeking after their own pleasure."
"Well, if you like him so much, why are you sorry that he wants to marry Joyce?" asked I, boldly.
"I did not say that I was sorry, lass," said father, calmly.
My heart throbbed with pleasant triumph, but the battle was not over yet.
"Well, Laban, I don't suppose you can say that you're glad," put in mother, almost tartly, "after what I've heard you say about girls marrying out of their own class in life."
"Captain Forrester is not rich and idle," said I.
"No," answered mother, scornfully, "he is not rich, you're right enough there; but he is a good sight more idle than many men who can afford to keep a wife in comfort. I know your sort of play soldiers that never see an enemy."
"He's rich enough for a girl of mine," replied father. "As to his being idle, I hope maybe he's going to do better work saving the lives of innocent children than he could have done slashing at what are called the nation's foes."
"Yes, yes," said mother, a trifle impatiently. "I make no doubt you're right. I've nothing against the young man, but I can't believe, Laban, as you really mean to say that you'd give your girl to him willingly."
"Well," answered father, "I'm bound to say I'm surprised at the news; but we old folk are apt to forget that we were young once; and when I was a lad I loved you, Mary, so we mustn't be hard on the young ones. It's neither poverty nor riches, nor this nor that, as makes happiness; it's just love; and if the two love one another, we durstn't interfere."