“Well, whatever your name may be by rights, Keefe—and at this moment I have forgotten what it is—there is one word I cannot forget, and that is spelled L-I-B-E-R-T-Y. In America we have always had a regard for that little word. Perhaps we have preferred it to any in the language. Hundreds of thousands of men have died for it, and as many women have had broken hearts because of it. I’m not going to be behind them in my regard for it. I—have you asked me? I love you, Keefe. I’d rather be one year with you than twenty with anybody else. I shan’t mean anything to myself if I try to live my life away from you. I choose you, Keefe. I set the fortune aside and choose you.”
“No, Azalea,” he said, breathing as if he had been running, “no, you mustn’t choose yet. As your uncle says, it isn’t fair. I ought to go away—I ought to give you a chance to clear your mind. It isn’t clear now—”
“But I want you to stay,” I broke in.
And just then Uncle David came to the door.
“Nevertheless, Azalea,” he said quietly, “Mr. O’Connor, having finished both of your grandmother’s portraits, will be leaving for the North to-morrow.”
“Oh, but why to-morrow?” I cried.
“Because,” he said, still in that quiet voice, “it is best so. I sympathize with you, my girl. But believe me, it is best so.”
That is the way it stands, Carin. He has gone. It is very quiet here in the house. Miss Delight Ravanel has asked me to spend a week with her and I have accepted.
Always with love,
Azalea.