“Draw your chair closer, I cannot see you well,” said Mr. Carr. “I am growing old and my sight is failing me.” And the way his voice faded into silence was typical of what he had said.
Elliott obeying his request, continued:
“I have had the honor of being received in this house for some time—nearly two years now, and I hope the topic on which I am about to speak will not surprise you.”
“Is it about Dorothy?”
“It is. You evidently anticipate what I would say, though you cannot realize my hopes and fears. I love her truly, Mr. Carr, and I want to make her my wife.”
“I knew it would come. But why not a little later?” he said, pathetically.
It was so like a cry of pain, this appeal, that it made Elliott’s heart ache and hushed him into silence. After a little, Mr. Carr said, solemnly:
“Go on!”
“I know, after seeing you together from day to day, that between you and her there is an affection so strong, so closely allied to the circumstances in which it has been nurtured, that it has few parallels. I know that mingled with the love and duty of a daughter who has become a woman, there is yet in her heart all the love and reliance of childhood itself. When she is clinging to you the reliance of baby, girl and woman in one is upon you. All this I have known since first I met you in your home life.”
With an air of perfect patience the old man remained mute, keeping his eyes cast down as though, in his habit of passive endurance, it was all one to him if it never came his turn to speak.