"Morally a fine woman"—the words, spoken half shyly, half wistfully, were almost an unknown tongue to Matilda Cookson. Almost, but not quite. They called up vague visions of evening services, and of undefined longings for better things,—visions, more distinct, of a certain "revival," when she had become "hysterical," had stayed to the "enquiry meeting," and had professed to be "converted." She had been very happy then for a few weeks, but the happiness had not lasted long. Those things never did last; they were all pure excitement, as her father had said at the time. What was the use of raking up that old story now?
"I don't see that there was any great harm in my meeting him," she said doggedly.
"I am quite sure you did not mean any great harm; but do you know how men talk about girls who 'give themselves away,' as they call it?"
Matilda coloured. "I am sure he would not say anything horrid about me. He is awfully in love."
"Is he? I don't know much about love; but if he loves you, you surely want him to respect you. You would not like him to be a worse man for loving you,—and he must become a worse man, if he has a low opinion of women."
"You mean that I am not to meet him any more?"
"I mean that he cannot possibly respect you, while he knows you meet him without your mother's knowledge."
"And suppose I won't promise not to meet him again, what will you do?"
"I don't consider that I have the smallest right to exact a promise from you."
"Then you won't speak of this to any one, whatever happens?"