“You speak in enigmas,” was her reply.
“Do I? Let me try then to speak plainly to you, Phemie. I would see you married, sweet. I would have you try to give back love for love to a worthy man who loves you dearly.”
“Who is he?” she inquired.
“One who is much at Roundwood, who misses no opportunity of visiting you, of talking with you—who——”
“You mean Major Morrice, I conclude,” she interrupted. “He is certainly much at Roundwood, but for once your penetration has been at fault. It is Helen he wants. I am forestalling his petition, but you need take no notice of that when he comes to present it. Only cease connecting the idea of marriage and me, uncle, for I wed no more till death woos me.”
“Phemie, you grieve me.”
“Grieve you, when I tell you a good man and a true wants to marry your daughter, and will ask you for her in due time. Uncle, it is you who grieve me. I did not think you so selfish and short-sighted.”
She spoke laughingly, but he answered her seriously.
“Phemie, was there one of them I ever loved better than you? Had you been my own flesh and blood a hundred times over, could you have been nearer to me than has been the case?”
“I think not—I am positive not,” she said; “but what then?”