"But, Kate, we are beggars; in another month I shall not know where to find the price of our daily food; and though Georgina Desmond is wealthy and generous, dependency is wretchedness."
"Right, dear grandpapa," she replied, almost gladly, at this opening to the proposition she feared to make, "and we will scorn it. See, I can play well, and I love to teach, oh, very much; you will let me try and be so happy as to earn a little for you—I should be so proud! Not here, but in London, and then we shall be always together, and so happy! and independent, and—"
"You teach! never," cried the old man, turning from her, excitedly. "You were born for a different fate. Would to God you had married that wealthy Englishman, as Georgy wished, but—"
"No, no," interrupted Kate, "is poverty, is earning one's own bread so miserable a lot, that one should prefer the unutterable wretchedness of a marriage without affection? But why, dearest and best, am I not to teach? how many, born to as good a position as mine, have done so, and, if I do not, what is to become of us?"
"What indeed!" groaned Vernon.
There was a mournful pause. Kate, not daring to break the thread of her grandfather's thoughts, and silently pressing her smooth, soft cheek against his wrinkled hand.
"My own consoling angel!" said he at last. "It is a sad lot for you, at your age, to sink at once into oblivion, and—"
"How do you know that I am to sink into oblivion? how can you tell to what brilliant destiny this dark passage may be but an entrance? Dear grandpapa, 'Time and the hours run through the darkest day,' let us bear the present expecting a brighter future, and now, shall I send for Mr. Winter?"
"Yes," with a deep sigh, "we cannot act too quickly."