“Then mother was about my height?” Mabel said, as she held one of her father's hands in both her own, looking up into his face with humid eyes. “I had thought her taller.”
“That is the way with most children who get a habit of thinking of their parents with respect, until they fancy them larger and more commanding than they actually are. Your mother, Mabel, was as near your height as one woman could be to another.”
“And her eyes, father?”
“Her eyes were like thine, child, too; blue and soft, and inviting like, though hardly so laughing.”
“Mine will never laugh again, dearest father, if you do not take care of yourself in this expedition.”
“Thank you, Mabel—hem—thank you, child; but I must do my duty. I wish I had seen you comfortably married before we left Oswego; my mind would be easier.”
“Married!—to whom, father?”
“You know the man I wish you to love. You may meet with many gayer, and many dressed in finer clother; but with none with so true a heart and just a mind.”
“None father?”
“I know of none; in these particulars Pathfinder has few equals at least.”