Then Dan began to take me out driving. He had another horse, but he seldom drove Chita except by herself in a kind of sulky. Sam was larger, and one of father's horses matched him. There was another odd thing, he did not treat me so like a child, though he was very sweet and less imperious. I liked him better, but there was a mysterious feeling that I could not explain. Still fifteen is generally not analytical, and in those days the frank, free life had not made us introspective.
The crops had been fairly good. Father I found had rather given up any hope of entire recovery, but he was not despondent. We had drawn so much nearer together, and I was taking such an interest in his articles. I was getting to be quite a theoretic farmer.
One autumn evening, it was raining very hard, a perfect deluge. No one came in. In fact, the east wind blew such a hurricane off the lake that a pedestrian could hardly keep on his feet. We had a splendid fire, and there was a box of geraniums in the window full of scarlet bloom.
"Come and sit here," said father, motioning to the arm of the chair.
It was broad, and he could use it for a writing desk. It was a favorite seat of mine. I put my arm around his neck and kissed him on the forehead.
"Little Girl," he began, "we love each other very much. We have no near of kin, it is just you and I."
"Yes," I made answer. "But there are all the Haynes, and Sophie, and several of the girls that I make believe are cousins."
He laughed. "And we must never separate, I think. I couldn't live without you."
"Oh, father, no! no!" I cried, with passionate emphasis.
"But suppose in a year or two some man wants to marry you, or rather that you fall in love. And—after all, love is the best thing in a woman's life. You see, the old people do not live forever."