"Give me the Charles River," said Mrs. Nimmo, hastily. "It is worth fifty Bays."
"To me also," said Vesper; "but there is one family here that I should like to transplant to the banks of the Charles."
Mrs. Nimmo did not speak until they had passed through long Comeauville and longer Saulnierville, and were entering peaceful Meteghan River with its quietly flowing stream and grassy meadows. Then having partly subdued the first shock of having a horror of such magnitude presented to her, she murmured, "Are you sure that you know your own mind?"
"Quite sure, mother," he said, earnestly and affectionately; "but now, as always, my first duty is to you."
Tears sprang to her eyes, and ran quietly down her cheeks. "When you lay ill," she said, in a repressed voice, "I sat by you. I prayed to God to spare your life. I vowed that I would do anything to please you, yet, now that you are well, I cannot bear the idea of giving you up to another woman."
Vesper looked over his shoulder, then guided Toochune up by one of the gay gardens before the never-ending row of houses in order to allow a hay-wagon to pass them. When they were again in the middle of the road, he said, "I, too, had serious thoughts when I was ill, but you know how difficult it is for me to speak of the things nearest my heart."
"I know that you are a good son," she said, passionately. "You would give up the woman of your choice for my sake, but I would not allow it, for it would make you hate me,—I have seen so much trouble in families where mothers have opposed their sons' marriages. It does no good, and then—I do not want you to be a lonely old man when I'm gone."
"Mother," he said, protestingly.
"How did it happen?" she asked, suddenly composing herself, and dabbing at her face with her handkerchief.