"It is unnecessary." she replied, with a something almost of bitterness in her tone, "I had no right to expect that the memory of our misfortune would remain, when we ourselves were removed from sight. I ought rather to apologise for answering your question so uncivilly."
"No, no, indeed," cried he eagerly, "I cannot admit that—but indeed, Miss Watson, you do me injustice, and the same to all your former friends in that last speech. We cannot cease to regret the misfortune—the Providential dispensation, which in removing your excellent father from among us, robbed us likewise of you and your sisters."
"My dear father," said Emma involuntarily, her eyes filling with tears—she turned away her head.
"It was of course a terrible wound to you," said he softly, and stepping up quite close to her, "but not one which you need despair of time's healing; your good sense, your principles must assist you to view the occurrence in its true light. It must not sadden your whole life, or rob you of all pleasure."
"True—but there are other sorrows connected with it—" she stopped abruptly, then went on again, "however I have no right to complain. I have still some friends left—my loss of fortune has not entailed the loss of all those whom I reckoned amongst my friends; though an event of that kind is a good touch-stone for new and untried friendships."
"Can you imagine," cried he eagerly, "that such a circumstance can make the shadow of a difference to any one worth knowing. It is, I own, too, too common—but surely you have not met with such instances."
She shook her head and looked half reproachfully at him: in her own heart, she had felt inclined to charge him with this feeling.
"I should have thought," continued he warmly, "you would have said—at least you would have found it like the words of the old song, that—
"Friends in all the old you meet,
And brothers in the young."