"Sit down, child; I didn't mean to offend you. (The Lord has infinite patience and pity, and so for imbeciles, I suppose)" she said parenthetically and in a subdued tone, which was not heard by the visitor, who sat down, having an object in being both meek and persistent, a fact of which Miss Claghorn was aware. It was a sore temptation to let Paula have her wish, but, all the while she knew she must finally resolve to do her duty. It was that knowledge which gave acrimony to her speech.
"Paula," she said, "I ought not to have asked you to come here about this matter. I knew what you would desire and hoped you would be able to persuade me; I ought to have known myself better. I must do my duty; she must come to me."
"But, dear Miss Claghorn——"
"She is a Claghorn, and—dreadful as it is—a heathen as well, and alone in the world. I must do my duty; it is not easy, I assure you."
Paula quite believed this, and the belief did not add to her hope of success. When Miss Claghorn desired to do things which, in the eyes of others, were better left undone, she was apt to see her duty in such action. It was equally true that her duty being visible, she would do it, even if disagreeable. But the duty now before her was, for many reasons, very disagreeable, indeed, and strictly just as she was, she was but human, and the righteous indignation she felt for her own vacillation fell naturally in part upon Paula.
"At least do not let that letter prejudice you," urged Paula. "She is a sweet girl, as good as gold."
"Very likely. Gold is dross. Good girls do not deny their Maker."
This was indisputable. Paula sighed. "I am very sorry we cannot have her," was all she said.
Miss Claghorn looked at her thoughtfully and with some inward qualms at her own harshness. There was an opportunity to seasonably drop a word which for some time she had been considering as ready to be dropped, and which, if heeded, might have some consolation for the girl before her.
"You can have her—on one condition. Come now, Paula!"