“Not so pretty as Jo,” I answered. Then I told about my visit in Summerville.
“And the girl is alone with that old drunkard?” said my mother.
“Yes.”
“Too bad! I wish I could see her.”
“I love her,” I said, soberly.
“Child!” she exclaimed, “you're not yet sixteen.”
“A boy has feelings,” I protested.
“If I'm not in love, I'd like to know what it is that makes me feel as I do. I would die for her.”
“Yes—yes, I know,” she answered, holding my hand in hers. “I was like you when I was a young miss—thought I was in love two or three times when I was not. Write to her if you wish, but you must be fair to her. Don't say a word about it until you see if it lasts. She may not care for you, anyway.”
This letter made me sure that she did care for me, however, and that and others like it were, indeed, the treasures of my youth. The notion of being fair to her grew in me, for, after all, my heart had had its change, and was it now to be wholly trusted?