"I—I love him, father," she sobbed, hiding her face in his shoulder. "I've tried my best not to. But I can't live without him. I—I—love him!"
Fosdick was profoundly moved. There were tears in his eyes, and he gently stroked her hair. She reached out for his hand, took it, kissed it, and put it under her cheek—she hated to have anyone touch her hair, which was most troublesome to arrange to her liking. "Listen to me, child," said the old man. "You remember when Armstrong was trying to impose on your tender heart? You remember what I said? Was I not right? Aren't you glad you took my advice?"
"But I never loved him—really," said Amy.
"And you don't love Alois. You couldn't love one of our dependents. You have too much pride for that. But, again I want to warn you. There's a reason—the best of reasons—why you must not be even friendly with—this young Siersdorf. I can't explain to you. He's an adventurer like Armstrong. Wait a few days—a very few days, Amy. He has been careful to let you see only the one side of him. There's another side. When you see that, you'll be ashamed you ever thought of him, even in jest. You'll see why I want you to be safely established as the wife of some substantial man."
"Tell me what it is, father."
"I tell nothing," replied Fosdick. "Wait, and you will see."
"Is it something to his discredit? If so, I can tell you right now it isn't true."
"Wait—that's all. Wait."
"But, father—after all he's done for us, isn't it only fair to warn him?"
"Warn him of what?"