“But—have you never thought that there may be some story of wrong—of shame, even—connected with my early life? If we should discover it to be so, some time in the future, would you not regret having given yourself to me. Gladys, dear as you are to me, I could better face a separation now, than such a regret by and by.”
“Such a story of wrong could never harm you, dear Geoff. All the shame or guilt, if any, would rest upon others—the perpetrators of it. But I have no fear that you will ever be troubled by any such discovery. I believe you will yet learn your parentage and feel honored by it. However, it will never change or mar my love for you,” Gladys replied, with grave earnestness.
Geoffrey’s face was luminous.
“This noble spirit is just what I might have expected from you, Gladys; yet, I confess, I am very sensitive over the mystery of my birth, and I should never have been fully satisfied without knowing just how you feel about it. Oh, my love, the future looks very bright before us, though the next two years will seem very long to me.”
“Why, Geoff! I thought study was a positive delight to you,” Gladys returned, in surprise.
“And so it is, but it frets me to feel that, even after I get through college, it will perhaps be years before I can attain a position that will warrant me in asking Uncle August to give you to me finally.”
“What kind of a position would satisfy your conscientious scruples, Geoffrey?” Gladys asked, demurely.
“I would not feel willing to take you from a home of affluence to one of poverty—you must never miss the luxuries to which you have been accustomed,” he said, thoughtfully.
“Do you expect to find the treasure of a Monte Cristo somewhere?” his companion asked, in the same tone as before.
“Oh, no; I expect to provide a home and competence by my brains and hands; but it will take time——”