"And she live here with you, with Aunt Huldah?"
"Why not? She needn't know that Mrs. Huldah Sprague is your aunt, or that this is your home."
"But she would find it out some way. People calling would mention me. Aunt herself would."
"I know it," said Fanny, not quite so hopefully; "and that is the weak point of my plan. But then, you know, we are Charley and Fanny to everybody. She only thinks of you as Mr. Browne. Anyway, something will be gained. I shall see her, and decide about liking her, which is quite important; and it will be well for her to have the situation, even if nothing else comes of it. I don't see any harm our scheme can do; do you, Charley?"
"No,—no harm; but still, things don't look—exactly clear."
"Of course not; it is not to be expected. I have read in books that lovers have always a mist before their eyes. Mine are clear yet; and I will tell you what to do,—or, rather, what not to do. Don't write her from here; wait till you are in Cambridge."
By this time we reached the house. The moment we entered, Aunt Huldah stretched out her hand for the dye-stuff. We had forgotten all about it!
Those few days at home were pleasant. Aunt Huldah was unusually kind. It was such a satisfaction to her to know that I had kept a school,—to think that some of her own pluck was hid beneath my quiet seeming. She proposed my becoming a lawyer, to which I made no objection,—for I knew I could make a dumb lawyer, one of the kind who only sit and write.
I wrote to Rachel from Cambridge, and she answered my letter. It was like herself. "How very kind you have been," she wrote, "to me, a poor stranger-girl! If I knew how to write, I would try to let you know how much I feel it. I can't understand your wanting to marry a girl like me. I know so little, am so little. I hope it will not offend you, but I think I ought to say, even if it does, that you must not write any more. Sometime you will thank me, in your heart, for not doing as you want me to now."
I saw that I had indeed a noble nature to deal with. Here was a girl, all alone in the world, rejecting the sweetest offering that could be made to a friendless one,—a loving heart,—lest that heart should be made to suffer on her account! Of course I kept on writing, though my letters were not answered. I sent her letter to Fanny, who wrote me to keep up good courage, for she had already put her irons in the fire,—that, although now fully convinced that Rachel was too good for me, she had herself begun to love her, and was at work on her own account.