"Yes, yes, I know. My dear Mary was a model girl, Miss Fitzgerald; a good child is a great blessing. I see your position."
"I'm sure you do. Try as one may, a young girl has not that experience which comes with age, her best efforts are sometimes misinterpreted— I've suffered keenly myself."
"My poor child," said the old rector, patting her hand in a fatherly manner. "My poor child! You yourself see the need of a guiding hand."
"I do, I do. Having no one to fight life's battle for me, I've become of necessity self-reliant."
"Of course, of course."
"It has been misinterpreted, misunderstood. I've been called—hard; worse— I've been thought——" Her voice broke.
"My dear child," said the old man, "you'll forgive my speaking plainly, but you should be married. You need a husband. Someone who will take the responsibility from you."
Miss Fitzgerald breathed a contented little sigh, and her bowed head leaned, oh, so lightly, against his shoulder!
"I hoped you would say that," she murmured.
"Is there someone—then—someone you love? You rejoice me exceedingly."