"Do you think so, Peregrine?"
"No!" said I. "No!"
"Nor do I, boy. Such as she, being deep and reverent of soul, do not love lightly, and never forget. On the contrary, with her growing knowledge and experience, surely her love for you will grow also; it must do. If she loves you to-day, child of nature as she is, how much greater will be her capacity for love as an educated woman, knowing that it is to your unselfishness, first and foremost, that she owes so very much?"
After this was silence again wherein I watched my companion disjoint his fishing rod.
"Sir," said I at last, "yours is a very noble and generous offer—"
"Tush!" he exclaimed a little sharply. "I am a solitary old man who yearns for a daughter."
"Sir, in less than a fortnight is—the day—our wedding day—"
"Then," said his lordship, rising, "God's blessing on that day,
Peregrine, and on each of you."
"You ask of me a very great thing, sir!" I groaned.
"Indeed, yes, Peregrine, so very great that only the greatest love could possibly grant it."