"Married! And she cared so much for you," cried Primrose in consternation.
Andrew colored and moved his head with a slow negative.
"No, it could not have been. Andrew—I wonder what kind of a wife you would like?" turning her eyes away.
He could have reached out his hand and answered her with a clasp. But there was another who loved her very much, who was young and gay and full of ardent hopes. That would be better for the child.
"I shall not marry for years to come." His voice was very tranquil. "There is my mother, and now we are so much to each other."
"And she ought to be a Friend. You would like a Friend best, Andrew? And no flighty young thing."
Was she thinking of anything? Oh, she was too young and sweet. It would be putting a butterfly in a cage.
"That would be better, certainly. When two people elect to spend their lives together, it is best that they should have similar tastes and desires."
"But a sweet and pretty one, Andrew. One like Miss Whiting, who is intelligent and noble and reads a great many things and has a lovely garden of flowers. I want you to be very, very happy, Andrew."
"Thank you, little one. Let me wish the same for you. A gallant young lover with ambition, who can take his place in society and who will enjoy with you the youthful pleasures that are so much to you, and then grow older with you and come to ripe middle life and serene old age. I think I could put my finger on someone——"