"Do not reproach me," she said.
"No;—no. Why should I reproach you? You have committed no fault. I should not have come had I intended to reproach any one."
"I love you so much for saying that."
"Let it be as you wish it,—if it must. I have made up my mind to bear it, and there shall be an end of it." As he said this he took her by the hand, and she put her head upon his shoulder and began to weep. "And still you will be all the world to me," he continued, with his arm round her waist. "As you will not be my wife, you shall be my daughter."
"I will be your sister, Roger."
"My daughter rather. You shall be all that I have in the world. I will hurry to grow old that I may feel for you as the old feel for the young. And if you have a child, Hetta, he must be my child." As he thus spoke her tears were renewed. "I have planned it all out in my mind, dear. There! If there be anything that I can do to add to your happiness, I will do it. You must believe this of me,—that to make you happy shall be the only enjoyment of my life."
It had been hardly possible for her to tell him as yet that the man to whom he was thus consenting to surrender her had not even condescended to answer the letter in which she had told him to come back to her. And now, sobbing as she was, overcome by the tenderness of her cousin's affection, anxious to express her intense gratitude, she did not know how first to mention the name of Paul Montague. "Have you seen him?" she said in a whisper.
"Seen whom?"
"Mr. Montague."
"No;—why should I have seen him? It is not for his sake that I am here."