When Tom Lansing had been laid in the white bosom of the hillside, and the people were dispersing from the house, young Jeffrey Whiting came and stood before the Bishop. The Bishop’s sharp old eyes had told him to expect something of what was coming. He liked the look of the boy’s clean, stubborn jaw and the steady, level glance of his eyes. They told of dependableness and plenty of undeveloped strength. Here was not a 31 boy, but a man ready to fight for what should be his.
“Ruth told me that you were going to take her away from the hills,” he began. “To a school, I suppose.”
“I made a promise to her father,” said the Bishop, “that I would try to see that she got the chance that she will want in the world.”
“But I love her. She’s going to marry me in the Spring.”
The Bishop was surprised. He had not thought matters had gone so far.
“How old are you?” he asked thoughtfully.
“Twenty in April.”
“You have some education?” the Bishop suggested. “You have been at school?”
“Just what Tom Lansing taught me and Ruth. And last Winter at the Academy in Lowville. I was going to Albany to law school next week.”
“And you are giving it all up for Ruth,” said the Bishop incisively. “Does it hurt?”