"But I am so unworthy," she said.
"You're pretending, Betty," I answered, and I argued so well that she abandoned her position.
"Now, give me another reason, Betty," I demanded, feeling encouraged by the success of my first bout. To this she answered with great hesitancy, murmuring her words almost inaudibly:—
"I could not leave father."
That was the reason I had feared, and when I drew away from her, showing my great disappointment in my face, she took one of my hands in both of hers, saying:—
"Not that I should not be happy to go with you anywhere, but you see I am all the world to father. He would die without me."
Here, of course, I might expect tears, nor was I disappointed. I, too, found the tears coming to my eyes, for her grief touched me keenly, and her love for her father showed me even more plainly than I had ever before known the unselfish tenderness of the girl I so longed to possess. It was hard for me to speak against this argument of hers; for it was like finding fault with the best part of her, so for a little time we were silent. After a minute or two, she glanced up to me and, seeing my great trouble, murmured brokenly:—
"If you think I am worth waiting for, and if you will wait till father is gone, I will go with you, and your smallest and greatest wish alike shall be mine. And when you become ashamed of me, I'll—"
"I'll not wait, Betty," I answered, ignoring the latter half of her remark. "I have a far better plan. I am going to France, and you and your father shall go with me."
"Ah, will you take him?" she cried, falling to the floor on her knees, creeping between mine, and clasping her hands about my neck. Her sweet, warm breath came to me like a waft from a field of roses, the fluffy shreds of her hair tingled my cheek, thrilling me to the heart, while the touch of her hand and the clasp of her arm carried me to heaven.