“Now, father.”
“I may live a hundred years, of course, and grow heartier each year, and like the ‘frisky old girl,’ die at the age of one hundred and ten, and ‘die by a fall from a cherry-tree then,’ but, still there’s a chance that I may not. And now, Daughter Tessa”—his voice became as grave as her eyes, “I want you to promise me that you will always take care of your poor little mother; poor little mother! You are never sharp to her like saucy Dine, and she rests in you like an acorn in an acorn cup, although she would be the last to confess it.”
“I promise to do my best,” Tessa said very earnestly.
“But that is only a part of it. Promise me that if she wishes to marry again, and her choice be one that you approve—”
“Approve!”
“Approve,” he repeated, “that you will not hinder but rather further it, and keep Dine from making her unhappy about it.”
“I will not promise. You shall not die,” she cried passionately. “How can you talk so and break my heart?”
“Dr. Watts says that we all begin to die as soon as we are born, so I have had to do it pretty thoroughly; but he was a theologian and not a medical man. Have you promised?”
“Yes, sir,” speaking very quietly, “I have promised.”
With her hand upon his arm, they kept even step for ten silent minutes.