"Has he done anything, mamma?"
"No. What should he have done? How am I to know what he does? He tells me nothing. Don't talk about it any more. Oh, God,—how much better it would be to be childless!"
"Oh, mamma, do you mean me?" said Hetta, rushing across the room, and throwing herself close to her mother's side on the sofa. "Mamma, say that you do not mean me."
"It concerns you as well as me and him. I wish I were childless."
"Oh, mamma, do not be cruel to me! Am I not good to you? Do I not try to be a comfort to you?"
"Then marry your cousin, Roger Carbury, who is a good man, and who can protect you. You can, at any rate, find a home for yourself, and a friend for us. You are not like Felix. You do not get drunk and gamble,—because you are a woman. But you are stiff-necked, and will not help me in my trouble."
"Shall I marry him, mamma, without loving him?"
"Love! Have I been able to love? Do you see much of what you call love around you? Why should you not love him? He is a gentleman, and a good man,—soft-hearted, of a sweet nature, whose life would be one effort to make yours happy. You think that Felix is very bad."
"I have never said so."
"But ask yourself whether you do not give as much pain, seeing what you could do for us if you would. But it never occurs to you to sacrifice even a fantasy for the advantage of others."