“Well, well, just as she pleases; there’s no particular hurry, and I’d be the last one to want to distress her,” returned Mr. Alden, and taking up his hat he stalked out of the room, evidently not over-pleased. In fact, his ire was roused not a little by the term Floy had applied to his proposition.
“Crime indeed!” he muttered to himself as he hurried down the garden path. “As if I—I could be thought capable of suggesting a crime!”
He hastened to his wife with his grievance.
“Oh, well, never mind the child; she’s only a slip of a girl, and I dare say hardly knows what a crime is,” Mrs. Alden answered soothingly. “But really, remembering how they doted on her and petted her, I never was more surprised at anything in my life than to hear that she wasn’t their own.”
“Nor I, Jane; and if she’s going to be such a fool as to publish the thing and give up the property that she knows, and we all know, was intended for her, why—I’ll withdraw my consent—”
“Oh, now, Nathan, don’t say that!” hastily interrupted his wife, knowing that he was an obstinate man and prided himself on keeping his word. “You might come to wish you hadn’t, for she’s a nice girl, and we’re all fond of her—you as well as the rest of us. There, now, I must go and see about supper,” she added, making an excuse to leave him before he had had time to commit himself.
Worn out with grief, excitement, and over-exertion, Floy went to bed that night with a raging headache, and for the next two or three days was able to do little but lie on the sofa.
Espy was with her almost constantly, saving her as much as possible from every annoyance, and comforting her with his sympathy and love.
They were not days of mirth and gladness, but of much heaviness of heart, yet often looked back upon in after years with tender regret, a mournful sweetness lingering about their memory.