The old man lifted his head.
"But, Boy, you do not know her. You have seen her only once. You can't spoil your own life that way."
A flood of color went over the younger face, and into his eyes came a depth of earnestness that showed his father that the man had awakened in his son. He was no longer a boy.
"Father, I do not need to know her. I love her already. I have loved her ever since I saw her. That was why I did not want to come to the wedding. I felt that I could not bear it."
The kindly older gaze searched the fine young face tenderly, but the lover's eyes looked back at him and wavered not.
"Is it so, Son?"—the words were grave. "Then God pity you—and bless you," he added, with an upward look. "I am afraid there is no easy way ahead of you. Yet I am proud to call you my son."
After this they walked on silently through the woods, over a pathway of flecked gold, where the sunlight sifted through the leafy branches. No sound came to interrupt the silence beyond the whisking of a squirrel or the flirt of a bird's wings in the branches.
The dinner-bell pealed forth from the inn, and they turned quietly to retrace their steps. They were almost in sight of the house before either spoke. Then the father said:
"Son, she does not know you. Have you any idea how she will take all this?"
"None at all, Father." It was spoken humbly.