“I wish you could have heard Miss Wedderburn sing her English song after you were gone. It was called, ‘What would You do, Love?’ and she made us all cry.”
“Ah, Miss Wedderburn! How delightful she is.”
“If it is any comfort to you to know, I can assure you that she thinks as I do. I am certain of it.”
“Comfort—not much. It is only that if I ever allowed myself to fall in love again, which I shall not do, it would be with Miss Wedderburn.”
The tone sufficiently told me that he was much in love with her already.
“She is bewitching,” he added.
“If you do not mean to allow yourself to fall in love with her,” I remarked, sententiously, “because it seems that ‘allowing’ is a matter for her to decide, not the men who happen to know her.”
“I shall not see much more of her. I shall not remain here.”
As this was what I had fully expected to hear, I said nothing, but I thought of Miss Wedderburn, and grieved for her.
“Yes, I must go forth from hence,” he pursued. “I suppose I ought to be satisfied that I have had three years here. I wonder if there is any way in which a man could kill all trace of his old self; a man who has every desire to lead henceforth a new life, and be at peace and charity with all men. I suppose not—no. I suppose the brand has to be carried about till the last; and how long it may be before that ‘last’ comes!”