“No, rather because so many of them lie before me,” said Graeme, slowly. “Unless, indeed, they may have more to show than the years that are past.”
“We may all say that, dear,” said Mrs Snow, gravely. “None of us have done all that we might have done. But, my bairn, such dreary words are not natural from young lips, and the years before you may be few. You may not have time to grow weary of them.”
“That is true,” said Graeme. “And I ought not to grow weary, be they many or few.”
There was a long pause, broken at last by Graeme.
“Janet,” said she, “do you think I could keep a school?”
“A school,” repeated Mrs Snow. “Oh, ay, I daresay you could, if you put your mind to it. What would binder you? It would depend some on what kind of a school it was, too, I daresay.”
“You know, teaching is almost the only thing a woman can do to earn a livelihood. It is the only thing I could do. I don’t mean that I could take charge of a school; I am afraid I am hardly fit for that. But I could teach classes. I know French well, and music, and German a little.”
“My dear,” said Mrs Snow, gravely, “what has put such a thought in your head? Have you spoken to your brother about it? What does he say?”
“To Arthur? No, I haven’t spoken to him. He wouldn’t like the idea at first, I suppose; but if it were best, he would reconcile himself to it in time.”
“You speak about getting your livelihood. Is there any need for it? I mean, is there more need than there has been? Is not your brother able, and willing—”