She took her hand away and held it. She would not let it shake.
"But," she said—and in the effort to steady her voice, it came loudly—"but what about Alexander?"
"He cannot come. I heard last night—only last night. And I—I have decided to go there instead."
"Why can't he come?" she asked, and she seemed to hear the thudding drop of her heart.
"He cannot leave his mother. He is a good son."
She was silent. Then, "I'm glad you're going," she said. "It will do you good."
"I have no doubt it will do me good." He gave a secret smile she did not see.
She waited for the request he had made so often, which she must refuse again, but it did not come. Was he tired of asking for a companionship she would not grant? Through the blackness of her disappointment she looked at him, wondering how often she had given him pain, and, as if in answer, he spoke, fidgeting with his hands.
"You mustn't think because you have not done all we hoped, you mustn't think yourself a failure. It is not given to many daughters to be what you have been to me. I want you to remember that—try to remember that."
"Do you think I could forget it?" she cried, in a voice that broke into harshness. "You put all your own goodness into me, and call it mine!"