“Oh, Ben, Ben, I’m very unhappy,” she broke out.
“Don’t mind it,” said Ben, with the egotism of love, but touchingly unselfish even in this egotism. “You needn’t be troubled about me. I always knew just as well as you that it was all foolishness, and I didn’t ever mean to let it vex you. Don’t mind it; I shall get over it, I suppose, and if I never do, I hope even when you’re a married woman it won’t be any harm for me to think you cared enough for me to be sorry that—that I was such a fool.”
She looked at him, puzzled by his misconception, but, divining it, she said instantly, “No indeed, Ben; whatever becomes of me, I shall be only too proud to think of you as my dear, dear friend. I haven’t had so many that I could spare you. I only wish I half deserved you. Ben!” cried Mrs. Farrell, abruptly, “do you know what I wish I was? I wish I was five or six years younger, so as to be a little younger than you; and I wish I was a good, simple girl, like some of these about here, and you had bought a farm out in Iowa, and you were taking me out there with you this peaceful, lovely morning.”
“Don’t, Mrs. Farrell!” implored Ben.
“I do, Ben, I do! And if I were such a girl as that, I would work for you like a slave from morning till night; and I would obey you in everything; and all that I should ask would be that you should keep me there out of sight of everybody, and never let me go anywhere, or speak to a living soul but you. And, oh, Ben, you would be very kind and patient with me, wouldn’t you? But it can’t be, it can’t be.”
She stooped down and gathered up some letters which had slipped from her hand; Ben let her; he had his bag to hold, and he was not used to offering little services to ladies. When she lifted her face again and confronted him, “He is a good man, too; don’t you think he is, Ben?” she asked, brushing her hand across her eyes.
“Yes; there a’n’t many like him,” answered Ben, soberly.
“Do you think he’s too good for me?”
“I don’t think anybody could be that, you know well enough, Mrs. Farrell,” said Ben, with a note of indignation, as if he suspected a latent mockery in this appeal to his judgment.
“Yes, yes, that’s true, I know that,” said Mrs. Farrell, hastily. “I meant, don’t you think he’s better than—than Mr. Gilbert?”