“Then you do not inwardly fret against the limitations of this bit of a village—” she began, frightened at herself for the suggestion: “I thought, perhaps, you were bearing Bensalem.”
“So I am, I hope,” he answered, gravely, “in my heart, and in my prayers.”
“I beg your pardon,” she returned, flushing under the “splendid purpose in his eyes.” “I might have known you were too broad to feel narrowed, as I do.”
“You remember what Lowell says: ‘There are few brains that would not be better for living for a while on their own fat.’”
“And that is better than the fat of the land—which you will never get in Bensalem.”
“I think I started from my new standpoint without worldly ambition. Think of Paul writing the Epistle to the Romans from a literary point of view.”
“Well, then,” with a laugh that was half a grumble, “I despair of you, if you ‘take pleasure’ as he did in all sorts of infirmities and limitations—I was beginning to be ambitious for you. You spent all the afternoon last week with Agnes Trembly’s mother, reading to her, and telling her stories—you do not take time to study as you used to study. You were such a student. Now all you care for is people—and the Bible,” she ran on, discontentedly; “What does Don think of you?” she asked, with a sudden flush.
“He is in despair,” he replied, thinking of Don’s latest letter of angry expostulation.
“He is ambitious,” said Marion, reproachfully.
“So am I,” he answered, smiling at the reproach.