"Peregrine, God has bestowed on her a mind capable of great things—a wonderful voice. Place her in my charge for two years—I am solitary and very rich—she shall see the world and its wonders; I will have her educated, bestow on her all the refinements that great wealth can command. Nature has given her a glorious voice, Art shall make her a great singer. Forego your present happiness for her future good and your gipsy maid shall become a great lady and a peerless woman. Do this, Peregrine, and here, truly, shall be love indeed."
Now at this I was silent a long while, staring down blindly at the hurrying waters of the brook; glancing up at last, I found him regarding me with his keen, bright eyes and was struck anew by the strength of his personality, his resolute face with its indomitable mouth and chin, his serene air of dignity and assured power.
"She would be safe with me, Peregrine," said he gently, "secure from every evil—and from every chance of molestation."
"I know that, sir."
"She would be cherished and loved as sacredly as—my own daughter—might have been."
"I am sure of it, sir—and yet—"
"Well, Peregrine?"
"Two years, sir," I faltered. "It—it is an age—"
"You are both children, Peregrine, but in two years, as I understand, you will be of age, a man, master of your fortune—and she a woman, clever, accomplished and perhaps famous."
"And may have forgotten me!"