‘Ah!’ said Copley again, with a little sigh.
Marcia slipped down on her knees beside the bed. ‘Uncle Howard,’ she whispered, ‘I want to tell you something. I’m—going to marry Mr. Sybert.’
Copley raised himself on his elbow and stared at her.
‘You are going to marry Sybert?’ he repeated incredulously.
‘Yes, uncle,’ she smiled. ‘He asked me to.’
‘Sybert!’ Copley repeated, with an astonished laugh. ‘Holy St. Francis! What a change is here!’
‘I thought you would be pleased,’ she said a little tremulously.
He stretched out his hand and laid it over hers. ‘My dear Marcia, nothing could have pleased me more. He’s the finest man I have ever known, and I begin to suspect that you are the finest girl. But—good gracious! Marcia, I must be blind and deaf and dumb. I had a notion you didn’t like each other.’
‘We’ve changed our minds,’ she said; ‘and I wanted you to know it because I thought it would make you feel better.’
‘And so it does, Marcia,’ he said heartily. ‘The year has accomplished something, after all; and I’m glad for Sybert’s sake that he’s got this just now, for, poor fellow, he’s in a deeper hole than I.’