"I did not mean to say it, Louis, but it is true."
"Why true?"
"I am so sorry—"
My dilemma was a queer one; I had to explain, and the tears that gathered when his mother sang, came back as I described our plain home.
"I love my home, it is good enough for me, I could not exchange it even with you, but you will think us rude, uncultivated people, I fear; you will find no attraction there; everything is as homely there as I am myself!"
And I never can forget how his bright, dark eyes grew humid with sympathy, to be covered with the sunlight of his smile at the earnest honesty of my remarks, especially the last one.
"Ah! Miss Emily, you know not your friend; I am more anxious than ever to go, and care not if you are sorry."
"I am glad now of my unexpected speech," I replied, "and feel as if I had really been to the confessional; your mother is so sensitive, I could not tell her, and I have kept this thought constantly before me, 'He will not stay if he goes, and I am sure he cannot eat rye bread and butter.'"
"You will see, Miss Emily, how I shall eat it, but we are to be interrupted; here comes the soulless girl that shocked you so; mother is with her; excuse me for a moment," and he made his way to a corner of the parlors, seating himself alone as if in reverie.
"Mademoiselle Emily, my friend, Miss Lear, desires an introduction to you; be seated, Miss Lear," and Clara took the chair on the other side; the disappointment of Miss Lear, in not finding Louis, was visible, even to my unpractised eye, and her tender enquiries of his mother regarding his health etc., were amusing.