“It is wrong to seek to bind love in any way, and, try as we may, it cannot be done! Love, the spirit, will ever be free. ’Tis only the body, the house, the casket, that we can fetter and defile, and by that means it, the body, becomes but an empty casket, which will soon fall into decay when it has nothing to sustain it, while the little love-god goes wandering on and on mocking and laughing at our futile attempts to hold him fast.
“Then why should such attempts be made? Cherish him with tenderness, strive to stand high in his regard, strive to attain to a noble manhood and womanhood and he will forget his gypsy habits, his proneness to wander. Feed and nourish him with that of which he is most in need; develop for his especial benefit that in your own character and nature which commands respect and admiration, and you will find him willing to be held in his allegiance. You can do much to win him but you cannot hold him by force, because there is absolutely no holding him. It cannot be done, and it is wrong,—it is a sin and a shame, a crying shame, to attempt it.
“Ha! ha! On the old track again! Always the same; always preaching; but I cannot help it, my dear. It seems to have become my second nature. But now I have a piece of news for you. Margaret did not tell you all.
“When this fair lady-love of mine will have taken to walking her own way I know there will come many weary lonesome hours, for the coming winter, so we have been laying some plans how to make them less irks me. Maybe it is premature to say what these plans are, as much may happen to prevent the realization; but here they are:
“About the time you expect sleighing in your eastern city, I intend, in company with our fair Margaret’s mother, to set out on a trip. Do you understand? My heart yearns for those precious sisters of mine, mere babes almost they were when I saw them last. I want to clasp them in my arms and kiss their lips, red with the wine of life; while Mrs. Leland, I know, will win a place in the heart of every one with whom she comes in contact. Yet I believe there is a particular reason that actuates her in making this trip. There is a secret yearning and longing that will not be quieted.
“By writing of the accident which reunited you with your sister you aroused her mother heart by bringing before her mind’s eye her son Osmond. The hope to again call her boy her own is the mainspring of the desire to make this visit. How is it, little girl? Shall we be assured a welcome? But there! I ought not to have asked this last question. It was out of place, for of course we shall be welcome. But methinks it is time to close or I will have covered as much paper as Margaret has done, and it is not my desire to weary you. With the same cherishing love as of old, I am as ever
Wilbur Wallace.”
Imelda folded these sheets also and laid them to the others, but Norman did not speak. With his head leaning on his hand he sat staring into vacancy, Imelda gently, tenderly took his head between her hands and bent it back so she could look into the clear blue orbs.
“And what does my Norman think of Wilbur now?”
“That he is right in every instance.”