"After you are graduated I shall take you into business, and into my own family, as if you were my son."
And Jessie herself had vetoed this,—had said it must not be.
For an instant Walter felt that he would not go to New York at all; but when he saw how closely Jessie nestled to his side, and heard her say, "You can come to see me every day, and when I am going to concerts, or the opera, I shall always send word to you by father," he rejected his first suspicions as unjust.
She was not ashamed of him,—she only wished to screen him from her grandmother's ill nature, and, winding his arm around her, he said:
"You are a good girl, Jessie, and I'm glad you think of me as a brother."
But he was not glad. He did not wish her to be his sister, but he tried to make himself believe he did, and as in the pines where they sat it was already very dark, he proposed their returning home. Jessie was unusually silent during the walk, for she was thinking of Walter's young mother, and as they passed the grave-yard in the distance, she sighed:
"Poor dear lady! I don't wonder you are often sad with that memory haunting you."
"I should not be sad," he returned, "if I could bring the world to my opinion; but nearly all except Aunt Debby believe him guilty."
"Does my father?" asked Jessie, and as Walter replied, "Yes," she rejoined: "Then I'm afraid I think so too, for father knows; but," she hastily added, as she felt the gesture of impatience Walter made, "I like you just the same,—yes, a great deal better than before I heard the story. It isn't as bad as I supposed, and I am so glad you told it. Will Bellenger won't make me distrust you again."
By this time they had reached the house, where the deacon sat smoking his accustomed pipe, and saying to Walter as he entered: