"Veronica has been let alone—is master of herself, except when in a rage. She is an extraordinary girl; independent of kith and kin, and everything else. I assure you, Miss Cassy, she is very good."
"Does she ever ask for me?"
"I never heard her mention your name but once. She asked one day what your teachers were. You do not love each other, I suppose. What hatred there is between near relations! Bitter, bitter," he said calmly, as if he thought of some object incapable of the hatred he spoke of.
"That's Grandfather John Morgeson you think of. I do not hate
Veronica. I think I love her; at least she interests me."
"The same creeping in the blood of us all, Cassy. I did not like my father; but thank God I behaved decently toward him. It must be late."
As he kissed me, and we stood face to face, I recognized my likeness to him. "He has had experiences that I shall never know," I thought. "Why should I tell him mine?" But an overpowering impulse seized me to speak to him of Charles. "Father," and I put my hands on his shoulders. He set his candle back on the table.
"You look hungry-eyed, eager. What is it? Are you well?"
"No."
"You are faded a little. Your face has lost its firmness."
My impulse died a sudden death. I buried it with a swallow.