“No; I do not think you could have done otherwise, if you did not care for John Pooke.”
“I did, and I do care for John Pooke.”
“Then why did you not take him? Only because of the silver peninks?”
“No, sir; not that only. I care for him, but not enough; I like him, but not enough.”
“Quite so. You like, but do not love him.”
“Yes, that is it.” Kate breathed freely. “I did not know how to put it. Do you think I did right?”
The rector paused before he answered. Then he said, signing with his thin hand, “Come here, little Kitty. Sit by me.”
He took her hand in his, and, looking before him, said, “It would have been a great thing for this parish had you become John Pooke’s wife, the principal woman in the place, to give tone to it, the one to whom all would look up, the strongest influence for good among the girls. I should have had great hopes that all the bread I have strewed upon the waters would not be strewn in vain.”
“I thought you wished it,” burst forth from the girl, with a sob. “And yet I could not—I could not indeed. Now I have turned everyone against me—everyone but Rose,” she added, truthful in everything, exact in all she said.
“No, Kitty, I do not wish it. It is true, indeed, that it would be a rich blessing to such a place as this to have you as the guiding star to all the womanhood in the place, set up on such a candlestick as the Pookes’ farm. But I am not so sure that the little light would burn there and not be smothered in grease, or would gutter, and become extinguished in the wind there. The place is good in itself, but not good for you. It might be an advantage to the parish, but fatal to yourself. John Pooke is an honest, worthy fellow, and he has won my respect because he saw your value and has striven to win you. But he is not the man for you. For my little Kitty I hope there will come some one possessed of better treasures than broad acres, fat beeves, and many flocks of sheep; possessed of something better even than amiability of temper.”