Madam Winthrop sat bolt upright in a wooden chair, and eyed her three daughters suspiciously. Now and then she made a remark about their conduct at the wedding, and they acquiesced meekly. They had learned never to dispute with their mother when she was in her present mood.
Charles and his father wandered by common consent into the woods near-by. It was the son who spoke first.
"Father, I've been thinking all the morning about what you said of her—Miss Van Rensselaer." He spoke the name shyly, reverently, and his heart throbbed painfully. He felt himself very young and presumptuous. The bright color glowed in his face. "It will be terrible for her." He breathed the words as if they hurt him.
"Yes," assented the father; "I cannot get her out of my mind, the poor innocent child! Think of Betty, Charles. Suppose it was Betty."
The young man frowned.
"Father, did you ever see her?"
"No," said the older man, wondering at his son's vehemence. "Did you?"
"Yes, I saw her once, when I met Harrington on my way to Boston. I stopped off with him at the school where she was being educated, and we saw her. She is beautiful, Father, beautiful, and very young. She looked as if she could not stand a thing like this, as if it might crush her. Don't you think we ought to do something for her, to make it easier? Isn't it our place? I mean—say, Father, in the Bible, you know, when the older brother died, or failed in any way, the younger brother had to take up the obligation. Do you understand what I mean, Father? Do you think I could? I mean, do you think she would let me? It wouldn't be so public and mortifying, you know, and I think girls care a great deal about that. Betty would, I'm sure."
The father looked up in astonishment.
"What do you mean, Charles? Do you mean you would marry her?"