“I have Uncle to help me, and I think my ideal grew out of my knowledge of him. How can I fail to believe in goodness, when he shows me what it can be and do?”
“It's no use for me to say any more, for I have very little to offer. I did not mean to say a word till I earned a right to hope for something in return. I cannot take it back, but I can wish you success, and I do, because you deserve the very best.” And Mac moved as if he was going away without more words, accepting the inevitable as manfully as he could.
“Thank you that makes me feel very ungrateful and unkind. I wish I could answer you as you want me to for, indeed, dear Mac, I'm very fond of you in my own way,” and Rose looked up with such tender pity and frank affection in her face, it was no wonder the poor fellow caught at a ray of hope and, brightening suddenly, said in his own odd way: “Couldn't you take me on trial while you are waiting for a true hero? It may be years before you find him; meantime, you could be practicing on me in ways that would be useful when you get him.”
“Oh, Mac! What shall I do with you?” exclaimed Rose, so curiously affected by this very characteristic wooing that she did not know whether to laugh or cry, for he was looking at her with his heart in his eyes, though his proposition was the queerest ever made at such a time.
“Just go on being fond of me in your own way, and let me love you as much as I like in mine. I'll try to be satisfied with that.” And he took both her hands so beseechingly that she felt more ungrateful than ever.
“No, it would not be fair, for you would love the most and, if the hero did appear, what would become of you?”
“I should resemble Uncle Alec in one thing at least fidelity, for my first love would be my last.”
That went straight to Rose's heart, and for a minute she stood silent, looking down at the two strong hands that held hers so firmly yet so gently, and the thought went through her mind, “Must he, too, be solitary all his life? I have no dear lover as my mother had, why cannot I make him happy and forget myself?”
It did not seem very hard, and she owned that, even while she told herself that compassion was no equivalent for love. She wanted to give all she could, and keep as much of Mac's affection as she honestly might, because it seemed to grow more sweet and precious when she thought of putting it away.
“You will be like Uncle in happier ways than that, I hope, for you, too, must have a high ideal and find her and be happy,” she said, resolving to be true to the voice of conscience, not be swayed by the impulse of the moment.