"Of course not. But what has that to do with it? We love you so dearly that we can only be happy when you are happy. We love you so dearly that we can be happy with you away from us,—just knowing that you are happy. But you—you thought our love was such a hideous, selfish, little make-believe that——"
"Oh, father, I didn't! You know I didn't!—But—maybe Jerry won't forgive me now?"
"Why didn't you talk it over with me, Prudence?"
"I knew you too well, father. I knew it would be useless. But—doesn't it seem wrong, father, that—a girl—that I—should love Jerry more than—you and the girls? That he should come first? Doesn't it seem—wicked?"
"No, Prudence, it is not wicked. After all, perhaps it is not a stronger and deeper love. You were willing to sacrifice him and yourself, for our sakes! But it is a different love. It is the love of woman for man,—that is very different from sister-love and father-love. And it is right. And it is beautiful."
"I am sure Jerry will forgive me. Maybe if you will send me a paper and pencil—I can write him a note now? There's no use waiting, is there? Fairy will bring it, I am sure."
But when a few minutes later, she heard a step in the hall outside, she laid her arm across her face. Somehow she felt that the wonderful joy and love shining in her eyes should be kept hidden until Jerry was there to see. She heard the door open, and close again.
"Put them on the table, Fairy dearest, and—leave me for a little while, will you? Thank you." And her face was still hidden.
Then the table by the bedside was swiftly drawn away, and Jerry kneeled beside her, and drew the arm from her face.
"Jerry!" she whispered, half unbelievingly. Then joyously, "Oh, Jerry!" She gazed anxiously into his face. "Have you been sick? How thin you are, and so pale! Jerry Harmer, you need me to take care of you, don't you?"