“Not all. It would be well for most of them if they were. It has been well for you. You have not been unhappy, Una?”
“Unhappy! No! How could one be unhappy in Warden? Why, it’s a world in itself, and full of friends. Every living thing in it seems a friend, and an old friend, too. How long have we lived in Warden, father?”
“Eighteen years.”
“And I am twenty-one. Mother told me yesterday. Where did we live before we came to Warden?”
“Don’t worry your father, Una,” said Mrs. Rolfe, who had been listening and looking from one to the other with ill-concealed anxiety; “he is too weary to talk.”
“Forgive me, father. It was thoughtless of me. I should have remembered that you have had a hard day, while I have been idling in the wood, and over my books; it was stupid of me to trouble you. Won’t you sit down again and—and I will promise not to talk.”
“Say no more, Una. It grieves me to think that you might not be content, that you were not happy; if you knew as much of the world that raves and writhes outside as I do, you would be all too thankful that you are out of the monster’s reach, and that all you know of it is from your books, which—Heaven forgive them—lie all too often! See now, here is something I found in Arkdale;” and as he spoke he drew from the capacious pocket of his velveteen jacket a small volume.
The girl sprang to her feet—not clumsily, but with infinite grace—and leaned over his shoulder eagerly.
“Why, father, it is the poems you promised me, and it was in your pocket all the while I was wearying you with my foolish questions.”
“Tut, tut! Take your book, child, and devour it, as usual.”