Again there was a silence.
“I could not have done the work I have had to do in the world if I had married. But I have often wondered whether that work was worth the while. Such a feeling must come over all workers, occasionally. Yes,” said Miss Lucretia, “there have been times when I have been sorry, my dear, though I have never confessed it to another soul. I am telling you this for your own good—not mine. If you have the love of a good man, Cynthia, be careful what you do with it.”
The tears had come into Cynthia's eyes.
“I should have told you, Miss Lucretia,” she faltered. “If I could have married him, it would have been easier.”
“Why can't you marry him?” demanded Miss Lucretia, sharply—to hide her own emotion.
“His name,” said Cynthia, “is Bob Worthington:”
“Isaac Worthington's son?”
“Yes.”
Another silence, Miss Lucretia being utterly unable to say anything for a space.
“Is he a good man?”