“Now,” she said low, “I am yours; and I love you purely, and I am sweet and good. Yes, I am; for how else could I school the love in my heart, and it near breaking? And you love me because I am. But what should I be afterwards—oh, what, what?”
“Betty, I am unhappy.”
She threw herself into grandfather’s old elbow-chair, and buried her face in her hands.
“No, no!” she cried piteously. “You won’t be so cruel!”
He went and seated himself by her on the arm of the chair.
“Shall I tell you what hath driven me to you, Betty?”
“You have quarrelled with her,” came the answer in a muffled voice, out of woman’s intuition.
“No, my dear. I am not justified in assuming the right to quarrel. She hath given me none. But she maddens me with her whimsies till the man in me rises up and refuses to be any longer the slave of her caprices.”
“What is she doing?”
“She trifles with my suit. ’Twas an honourable one that would seek to found a union on esteem and confidence. What can she know of these when she plays off my own servant against me in the regard of both?”