"I suppose he says his heart would break."
Derrice laughed nervously, and he went on. "Let it break. Other hearts have broken. It is a shame to keep you here. You were not born for the arid atmosphere of a New England town."
Derrice stopped laughing, and surveyed the friendly, handsome face beyond her. "Have you married?"
"No."
"Why did you not ask me?" she said, mischievously.
"I knew better, and you were too young. I think your father took you to Europe to get rid of me, though he probably did not tell you so."
Her face clouded. "My dear father—I think of him all the time. I wish to please him. I know— oh, I know, Mr. Huntington, that he would like me to stay here, but I do not wish to do so. It is such a conflict. If he only knew how I miss him,—how I hate to be away from him. He never used to have me do anything I disliked," and she tried to cover with her hands the sudden tears.
"Poor child!" said the clergyman; then he rose and stood over her. "Can you not think of some worse trouble that might have befallen you?"
"No, no, no,—I worship my father,—he was so strange,—I am afraid that I shall never live with him again. I think he wanted to get rid of me. Perhaps he is going to mar—marry himself."
"You are about eighteen now, Derrice, are you not?" asked Mr. Huntington, gently.