"Unhappy, my dear!" Mrs. Thatcher cried with real sympathy, drawing the girl's head upon her shoulder. "Why should you be unhappy? Tell Mother."
"I don't know, myself," Merry admitted, crying softly. "I've been unhappy ever so long. Now and then things have seemed to straighten out, but never for long at a time. Now I'm more unsettled than I have ever been, and I don't feel as if I could be much of a success in making any one else happy while I feel so miserable myself."
"This may be just what you need to help you find yourself, my dear," Mrs. Thatcher answered, kissing her affectionately. "Oftentimes, when we are wretched ourselves, we find happiness in giving it to others. Don't promise me anything, dear child, except that you will think the matter over carefully, and be prepared to settle it wisely when the time comes. Let me say again, unless you decide for yourself that your life will be made richer and brighter by marrying Philip Hamlen, of course I should not wish you to consider it."
Unconsciously Mrs. Thatcher had touched upon the same argument Merry had used with herself. The girl had striven for happiness and failed to find it; she had evolved a creed which called for ideals which she had come to believe did not exist; she had demanded something for herself before she thought of giving of herself. In her failure she had proved her fallacy. The one person who had it in his power to disprove her present contentions must consider her a visionary without the character to make the visions real. Romance had already come to him, and having found the girl too late that chapter in his life was closed. He was happy because he always thought of others rather than himself. That was the only royal road after all. There was nothing repellent about Hamlen. He had many attributes which compelled admiration, and if he once became settled, that in itself might release the indisputable abilities he possessed to accomplish the great work which might lay before him. But would marriage give that to him? Was she the one to bring about the metamorphosis which her mother so confidently predicted? Would happiness come to her as a result of giving it to him?
The thoughts and the questions crowded through her mind in such numbers and with such conflicting incoherence that she could hope to find no answers. But her decision need not be made now—that one fact remained clear and she clung to it. Perhaps another day would bring relief.
"I will think it over, Momsie," she promised in a tired voice. "Forgive me if I haven't seemed considerate. I want to do the right thing, dear, but it is so hard to know what that is."
"You are a darling!" Mrs. Thatcher cried, kissing her affectionately. "Don't worry about that. Mother will help you to find out."