“That is the whole.”
“Well; but Arthur, did she marry him after all?”
Arthur looked wistfully a moment at his aunt.
“Marry him! Bless you, no, Aunt Winnifred. She was a goddess. Goddesses don’t marry.”
Aunt Winnifred did not answer. Her eyes softened like eyes that see days and things far away—like eyes in which shines the love of a heart that, under those conditions, would rather not be a goddess.
CHAPTER LVI. — REDIVIVUS.
Ellen Bennet, like May Newt, was a child no longer—hardly yet a woman, or only a very young one. Rosy cheeks, and clustering hair, and blue eyes, showed only that it was May—June almost, perhaps—instead of gusty March or gleaming April.
“Ellen,” said Gabriel, in a low voice—while his mother, who was busily sewing, conversed in a murmuring undertone with her husband, who sat upon the sofa, slowly swinging his slippered foot—“Ellen, Lawrence Newt didn’t say that he should ask Edward to his dinner on my birthday.”