“It cannot be helped,” said Meta.
“Considering the circumstances,” began Norman, with lingering looks at the little humming-bird on his arm, “I believe I should be justified in waiting till such time as you could go with me. I could see what Mr. Wilmot thinks.”
“You don’t think so yourself,” said Meta. “Nobody else can give a judgment. In a thing like this, asking is, what you once called, seeking opinions as Balaam inquired.”
“Turning my words against me?” said Norman, smiling. “Still, Meta, perhaps older heads would be fitter to judge what would be right for a little person not far off.”
“She can be the best judge of that herself,” said Meta. “Norman,” and her dark eyes were steadfastly fixed, “I always resolved that, with God’s help, I would not be a stumbling-block in the way of your call to your work. I will not. Go out now—perhaps you will be freer for it without me, and I suppose I have a longer apprenticeship to serve to all sorts of things before I come to help you.”
“Oh, Meta, you are a rebuke to me!”
“What? when I am going to stay by my own fireside?” said Meta, trying to laugh, but not very successfully. “Seriously, I have much to do here. When poor Flora gets well, she must be spared all exertion for a long time to come; and I flatter myself that they want me at Stoneborough sometimes. If your father can bear to spare you, there is no doubt that you ought to go.”
“My father is as unselfish as you are, Meta. But I cannot speak to him until he is more easy about Flora. We always think the required sacrifice the hardest, but I must own that I could not grieve if he laid his commands on me to wait till the autumn.”
“Oh, that would make it a duty and all easy,” said Meta, smiling; “but I don’t think he will; and Aunt Flora will be only too glad to carry you out without encumbrance.”
“Has not Aunt Flora come to her senses about you?”