"Certainly it would; and, Mary, you have allowed him to act as a very near friend for a long time; and it is quite natural that he should have hopes that you loved him."
"I do love him, mother,—better than anybody in the world except you. Do you think that will do?"
"Will do?" said her mother; "I don't understand you."
"Why, is that loving enough to marry? I shall love him more, perhaps, after,—shall I, mother?"
"Certainly you will; every one does."
"I wish he did not want to marry me, mother," said Mary, after a pause.
"I liked it a great deal better as we were before."
"All girls feel so, Mary, at first; it is very natural."
"Is that the way you felt about father, mother?"
Mrs. Scudder's heart smote her when she thought of her own early love,—that great love that asked no questions,—that had no doubts, no fears, no hesitations,—nothing but one great, outsweeping impulse, which swallowed her life in that of another. She was silent; and after a moment, she said,—
"I was of a different disposition from you, Mary. I was of a strong, wilful, positive nature. I either liked or disliked with all my might. And besides, Mary, there never was a man like your father."