“Very well, I will be serious; nay, more, I will be solemn. Grace, I forbid you ever to mention this thing again, on pain of my bitter displeasure!”
Then, as she looked at him, too much startled to answer, he went on:
“A man has a right to his own thoughts, if he choose to keep them to himself and his Maker. There are some things with which even you may not meddle, Grace. What if my life holds a grief which I would bury from all eyes but my own? would you tear up the clods with unhallowed fingers? To no living person but my Saviour”—and here Archie looked up with reverent eyes—“will I speak of this thing.” Then she clung to his arm, and tears flowed over her cheeks.
“Oh, Archie! forgive me! forgive me! I never meant to hurt you like this; I will not say another word!”
“You have not hurt me,” he returned, striving after his old manner, “except in refusing to live with me. I am lonely enough, God knows! and a sister who understands me, and with whom I could have sympathy, would be a great boon.”
“Then I will come,” she replied; drying her eyes. “If you want me, I will come, Archie.”
“I do want you; and I have never told you anything but the truth. But you must come and be happy, my dear. I want you, yourself, and not a grave, reticent creature who has gone about the house the last few days, looking at me askance, as though I had committed some deadly sin.”
Then the dimple showed itself in Grace’s cheek. 276
“Have I really been so naughty, Archie?”
“Yes, you have been a very shadowy sort of Grace; but I give you full absolution, only don’t go and do it any more.” And, as she looked at him with her eyes full of sorrowful yearning, he went on, hastily: “Oh, I am all right, and least said is soonest mended. I am like the dog in Æsop’s fable, who mistook the shadow for the substance. A poor sort of dog, that fellow. Well, is your poor little mind at rest, Grace?” And the tone in which she said “Yes” seemed to satisfy him, for he turned their talk into another channel.