“I believe they are much attached to one another. Two years ago, when Reginald came back from Oxford, he told me of something which may, or may not, be news to you.”
“To me?” the girl repeated, meeting old Mr. Gascoigne’s keen scrutiny with amazement.
“Yes; he told me that, subject to my approval, he would, when he was in a suitable position, ask you to be his wife. Have you never suspected this?”
She stood up, staring in silent astonishment.
“Never. I—can hardly believe it. Reginald! We have seen so little of each other—he has been so much away at his uncle’s.”
“That is the very reason why he was struck so much with your beauty and fascination, my dear; the others, growing up with you, had become accustomed to both. Well—is Reginald’s feeling for you reciprocated?”
The girl went up to him, and laid one hand—a little timidly—on his arm.
“Do I understand that—you would sanction it, knowing—who I am?”
“With the greatest pleasure, my child,” returned the old lawyer, smiling. “Your father was a major in a crack regiment, and the daughter of such a man as Major Winstanley is a prize for any man. Tut—tut! my dear,” as she stammered out her mother’s name, “we are none of us perfect. If she sinned, poor woman, she expiated her sin.”
She stooped and kissed his hand, then drew herself upright, and brushed the tears from her eyes.