“It is, nevertheless, very pleasant to cry sometimes.”
“I have heard so before,” was his answer.
“And one can not do it in company, you know; it would look absurd, and be considered bad manners, which is worse; and besides, people do not ever understand one; I believe you are rather shocked at me.”
“Do you? then I am afraid my looks are deceitful.”
“Don’t you think me foolish then?” coloring again, and looking down.
“Foolish for feeling for my sister’s danger! foolish for caring for her safety! if affection, sympathy, friendship, sensibility, gratitude to Heaven, sincerity, simple truth of feeling, if these are folly, or if you suppose I consider them so, then accuse me of thinking you foolish.”
She was silent, but was visibly gratified by his warmth of manner.
“What have I ever done or said, Miss Barham, which can justify your suspecting me of such hard-hearted, cynical want of feeling? Tears, which do honor to my sister’s worth; tears, which prove your disinterested regard for the dearest objects of
my heart; tears, which show how nearly we sympathize in some of our feelings and affections; if I do not honor and respect such—if I do not feel intensely and most humbly grateful for them, I do not deserve to be admitted into civilized society, far less into yours, Miss Barham.”
“Please don’t talk in that way; I did not mean to imply you were any thing bad; how could I, when I know you love Hilary so?—but I am sure you give me credit for a great deal more good than I deserve.”