"Yes," she continued, blushing exquisitely, "even since you have told me how wicked he is, I am not sure that I like him less, though I fear him and shall avoid him as I should a pestilence."
"Ah, but will you, can you, Frances?" I asked.
"Indeed, yes, brother Ned, and if you doubt me, you don't know me," she returned.
"But do you know yourself?" I asked.
"Yes, now I do, thanks to your bravery," she answered.
"But you saw him many times after his first bold attempt," I suggested.
"Oh, it was easily forgiven," she returned, naïvely. "Yes, I have met him almost every day since then. The days I did not see him seemed to be blanks in my life. After his first boldness, he was always courteous. He never again became familiar, but seemed to try only to convince me of his regard in most respectful terms, and—and I listened all too willingly, but made no answer save what I could not conceal in my manner. That, I fear, was answer all too plain. But now you have opened my eyes, and I see clearly. I owe you a debt of gratitude I can never repay."
"If you go to court, this affair will have been a good lesson," I returned encouragingly. "For there you must learn to despise the proffered love of men, whether it be pretended or real, until one comes who is worthy of you in person, wealth, and station."
"Yes, I shall," she answered earnestly. "But here we are at home. As you suggest, let us not speak of this poor little affair."
"By no means," I answered, as I opened the gate.