"Why should he before he wanted it? I like to see a man who can be content with an art and a living by it."
"I hope I have not been to blame in allowing them to see so much of each other," I said, hardly heeding my wife's words.
"It came about quite naturally," she rejoined. "If you had opposed their meeting, you would have been interfering just as if you had been Providence. And you would have only made them think more about each other."
"He hasn't said anything—has he?" I asked in positive alarm.
"O dear no. It may be all my fancy. I am only looking a little ahead. I confess I should like him for a son-in-law. I approve of him," she added, with a sweet laugh.
"Well," I said, "I suppose sons-in-law are possible, however disagreeable, results of having daughters."
I tried to laugh, but hardly succeeded.
"Harry," said my wife, "I don't like you in such a mood. It is not like you at all. It is unworthy of you."
"How can I help being anxious when you speak of such dreadful things as the possibility of having to give away my daughter, my precious wonder that came to me through you, out of the infinite—the tender little darling!"
"'Out of the heart of God,' you used to say, Henry. Yes, and with a destiny he had ordained. It is strange to me how you forget your best and noblest teaching sometimes. You are always telling us to trust in God. Surely it is a poor creed that will only allow us to trust in God for ourselves—a very selfish creed. There must be something wrong there. I should say that the man who can only trust God for himself is not half a Christian. Either he is so selfish that that satisfies him, or he has such a poor notion of God that he cannot trust him with what most concerns him. The former is not your case, Harry: is the latter, then?—You see I must take my turn at the preaching sometimes. Mayn't I, dearest?"