Nan lifted her head and the two smiled at one another. “But had you really cared?” she asked.
“I thought so, but it was an imaginary caring. I was in love with an idea not a person. I never loved but one, Nan.” Her voice was very solemn and tender.
“And that was—father?”
“Yes.”
They drew closer together and neither spoke for a few moments.
“Mother dear,” Nan asked presently, “how old were you when you saw the young curate eat roast goose?”
“About your age, dearie.”
“And how long after that did you meet father?”
“I had known him long before, but I didn’t recognize my ideal lover in John Corner. That came later. Remember, Nan dear, ‘when half-gods go, the gods arrive.’”
Here some one came to the cabin door. Her mother went to open and then stepped out on the porch. Nan picked up her picture and the note; the former she would put away with the buttercup case; the latter she tore into small bits and threw these on the open fire before which she was standing; then she watched with a grave face till the last fragment smouldered into white ashes.