"Think, little one," he said, "of passing our days there, you and I! I
have made you my wife, for example; I paint great pictures; you are
proud of me; everybody respects you; you have your saddle-horse and your
tea-parties; you learn to be ashamed of what you were; you are anxious
to be better--not in people's eyes only, but in mine, in your own. To do
good deeds; to sit in the church hearing good counsel; to be patted upon
the forehead by my father--his daughter!--and to call my brother your
brother also. Thus honored, contented, good, your hairs turn gray with
mine. We walk along hand in hand so evenly that we do not perceive how
old we are growing. We may forget everything but our love; that remains
when we are gone--a part of our children's inheritance."
He spoke excellent French now; to her it was eloquence. Her arms were
around his neck. He could feel her heart, beating. He had expressed what
she scarcely dared to conceive--all her holiest, profoundest hopes, her
longing for what she had never been, for what she believed she would try
to be worthy of.
"Oh, my baby," she cried, half in tears, "you make me think! I have
never thought much or often; I wish I was a scholar, as you are, to tell
you how, since we have dwelt together, something like that has come to
me in a dream.
Pages:
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126