Miss Emory drew herself together with a sigh.
“I never thought of this,” she said, which was hardly true; she had thought of it many times.
“No,” admitted Dan, innocently enough, for her lightest word had become gospel to him, such was his love and reverence. “You couldn't know.” Poor Oakley, his telling of it was the smallest part of the knowledge. “I think I see now, perfectly, how great a difference this affair of my father's must make. It sort of cuts me off from everything.”
“It is very tragic. I wish you hadn't told me just now.” Her lips trembled pathetically, and there were tears in her eyes.
“I've wanted to tell you for a long time.”
“I didn't know.”
“Of course you couldn't know,” he repeated; then he plunged ahead recklessly, for he found there was a curious satisfaction in telling her of his love, hopeless as it was.
“It has been most serious and sacred to me. I shall never forget you—never. It has helped me in so many ways just to know you. It has changed so many of my ideals. I can't be grateful enough.”
Miss Emory approved his attitude. It was as it should be. She was sorry for him. She admired his dignity and repression. It made him seem so strong and purposeful.
“You will find your happiness some day, Mr. Oakley. You will find some one more worthy than I.” She knew he would be insensible to the triteness of her remark.