"Why, Father," I stammered, "of course I don't want to do anything unless you're willing, but I had thought I'd like—I did want to go and study in the city—I think—or somewhere."
"Dear me! Dear me!" he mused, his voice very low and even; "an' you just through the University; 'way up to the top, too. Can't ye—seems as if ye better stop alon' of us an' study home, same's you used to? Mebbe—mebbe 'twon't be good for ye, studyin' so much."
"Of course I can, you dear old Dad," I cried; and horribly guilty I felt as I looked at the kindly, weather-beaten face. "I shall do just whatever you say. But oh, I wish I could go to the city! Don't you suppose I could?"
"Chicago, mebbe?"
"I had thought of a post-graduate course in Barnard College—that's in New York, you know."
Father knew John's plans. I blushed hotly. In the pause that followed I knew that he was thinking of a well-thumbed map in my old school geography; of the long, long journey to Chicago, and the thousand weary miles that stretched beyond. Hastily I went on:—
"But I know how you have saved for me and worked for me and pinched; and I'd be ashamed to be a burden upon you any longer; I can teach to get money to go on with."
"No;" said Pa, sitting up straight and striking the arm of the chair with his clenched fist a blow that gave some hint of the excitement that moved him. "Guess a child o' mine don't need to teach an' get all dragged out, alon' of a passel o' wild children! No, no, Helen 'Lizy;" he added more softly, sinking back into the old attitude and once more closing his eyes; "if the's so much more to learn, an' you want to go ahead an' learn it, just you go an' get it done with. I'm right sorry to have ye go so fur away; I did think—but it's nat'ral, child; it's nat'ral. I s'pose John Burke's goin' to the city, too, and you kinder—I s'pose young folks likes to be together."
"I—I—we have talked of it."
Talked about it! John and I had talked of nothing else for a week. I sat very still, my eyes on the carpet.