“It seems to me a sin for the colonists to deny its members the highest joys that have been given to men and women,” said Everett. “I have often wondered whether you had any idea of all that you miss here in Zanah.”
“I miss nothing that is best for my well-being,” said Walda. “Thou wouldst not plant discontent in my heart, wouldst thou, Stephen Everett?”
“I would have you enjoy all that is most to be desired in life,” said Everett; and as he spoke he felt for the hundredth time an overwhelming impatience with the creed of the colony which denied to the young and beautiful all that made living worth while.
Walda went to the chest of drawers, and, taking her knitting from a little basket, sank upon a low chair, from which she could get a glimpse of her sleeping father. Everett felt that she had dismissed him. He took up his hat and said:
“You told me I might call you Walda, so I shall say, Good-night, Walda.”
“Good-night,” said the girl.
Everett hesitated.
“Will you not say, ‘Good-night, Stephen’?” he asked.
Walda stopped knitting.
“Why wouldst thou have me say thy name again?” she inquired.