"What did you think?"
"I had thought once that you were thinking of—Clarissa."
"What put that into your head?"
"If you had I should never have said a word, nor fancied any wrong. Of course she'll marry some one. And I don't know why I should ever wish that it should not be you."
"But what made you think of it?"
"Well; I did. It was just a word that Patience said in one of her letters."
"What sort of word?" asked Ralph, with much interest.
"It was nothing, you know. I just misunderstood her. When one is always thinking of a thing everything turns itself that way. I got it into my head that she meant to hint to me that as you and Clary were fond of each other, I ought to forget it all. I made up my mind that I would;—but it is so much easier to make up one's mind than to do it." There came a tear in each eye as he spoke, and he turned his face towards the fire that his brother might not see them. And there they remained hot and oppressive, because he would not raise his hand to rub them away.
"I wonder what it was she said," asked Ralph.
"Oh, nothing. Don't you know how a fellow has fancies?"