CHAPTER XXIV
THE BLOOM OF LIFE—LOVE
Doris flew to the study. Uncle Winthrop's eyes were bent on his book and his face partly turned aside. He had been making a brave fight. A man of a less fine strain of honor would not have answered the brave young lover as he had done. He could not have answered him thus if he had not liked Henri de la Maur so well, and loved Doris with such singleness of heart.
He heard her step and put out his hand without moving. His tone was very low.
"Is it—France?"
"France! Oh, Uncle Win! When I belong to you and Boston?"
Her arms were around his neck. His heart, his whole body, seemed to give one great throb of joy as he drew her down to his knee. There had been only one other experience in life as sweet.
"And you would have sent me away!" with a soft, broken upbraiding in which love was uppermost.
"No, child, no. God forbid, Doris, now that you are not going, I will confess—I think I should have died before the parting came. But, my little girl, I must say this in memory of two sweet years of wedded life—there is no happiness comparable to it. And to accept your youth, your golden period that never dawns but once on any human being, to gladden my declining years would be a selfish sin. I once had a dream—but it came to naught"—he drew a long breath as if the remembrance pained him. "You must be quite free, dear, to love and to marry. All these years with you have been so precious, but sometime I shall go my way, and I could not bear the thought of your being left alone!"