“No, my child; it has given me too much pain already.”
“I think you are not just to him, Gardy,” said she caressingly. “May I read it to you? Well, a part of it?”
“Once more, no, Kate. His argument is, that as he is now childless, he has the right to claim your love and affection, to replace what he has lost; that, as your nearest of kin, you cannot refuse him; and that, if you do—mark the insinuation—the reasons will be, perhaps, based on considerations apart from all affection.”
“I think he had the right to say that,” said she, firmly.
“There was one thing, however, he had no right to say,” said the old man, haughtily; “that to continue to reside under my roof was to challenge the opinion of a world never slow to be censorious.”
“And there, again, I think he was not wrong.”
“Then you love me no longer, Kate!” said he, with intense emotion.
“Not love you—not love you! Then, what do I love? Is it nothing to know that every happiness I have I owe to you—that all the enjoyment of a life more bright than a fairy tale, comes from you? That from your generous indulgence I have learned to think mere existence something like ecstasy, and awake each day as to a fête?”
“Say on, dearest, say on; your words thrill through me like a gentle music.”
“He does not offer me these; but he says, ‘Come to what you shall call your home, and never blush to say so.’”