"But one can think of them. They begin somehow and go into your very life. I believe I've loved her a long while."
"I think neither of you really know what love is. No, I cannot consent to it. I want her to go on having a good free time without any anxiety. I have some right to her, being her guardian."
"But—I will wait—I didn't mean to ask her immediately."
"We are going on a journey presently. I cannot have her disturbed with this. No, your attention must be devoted to business for the next two years."
He drew a long breath. "But you don't mean I must break off—everything?" and there was an unsteadiness in his voice.
"Oh, no. Not if you can keep to the old friendliness."
Then Chilian Leverett dropped into his easy-chair and thought. The child had grown very dear to him, she was a gift from her father. A tumultuous, uncomprehended pain wrenched his very soul. To live without her—to miss her everywhere! To have lonely days, longer lonely evenings when the dreariness of winter set in. And yet she had a right to the sweet, rich draught of love. But she did not need it amid all the pleasures of youth. Let her have two or three years, even if it was blissful thoughtlessness. But he must put her on her guard. A young fellow soon changed his mind. The old couplet sang itself in his brain:
| "If she be not fair for me, |
| What care I how fair she be?" |
Did he get over his early love and forget? We all say, "But ours was different."