“No, truly. That would be worse than ungrateful. May God give you all His work to do, and a will and strength to do it!”
“And you will have the children a long time yet; and Violet—” David hesitated and looked at his mother with momentary embarrassment. “Only mamma,” added he, “I am afraid Philip wants Violet.”
Mrs Inglis started.
“Has he told you so, Davie?” said she, anxiously.
“No—not quite—not exactly. But I think—I know you wouldn’t be grieved, mamma? Philip is just what you would like him to be now. Philip is a true Christian gentleman. I expect great things from Philip. And mamma, you can never surely mean that you are surprised.”
“Not altogether surprised, perhaps. But—we will not speak of it, Davie, until—”
“Until Philip does. Well, I don’t think that will be very long. But, mamma, I cannot bear that you should be unhappy because of this.”
“Unhappy? No, not unhappy! But—I could never make you understand. We will not speak about it.”
They went on in silence along the walk till they came to the garden gate, and there they lingered for a while.
“Mamma,” said David, “do you remember one night, a very stormy night, when you and I watched for papa’s coming home? I don’t know why I should always think of that night more than of many others, unless it was almost the last time he ventured forth to meet the storm. I think you were afraid even then, mamma?”