Young Evelina would not need to be
taken away, for the sake of her love, from all these comforts and
luxuries. Thomas Merriam rejoiced innocently, without a thought for
himself.
In the course of the winter he confided in his father; he couldn't
keep it to himself any longer. Then there was another reason. Seeing
Evelina so little made him at times almost doubt the reality of it
all. There were days when he was depressed, and inclined to ask
himself if he had not dreamed it. Telling somebody gave it substance.
His father listened soberly when he told him; he had grown old of
late.
"Well," said he, "she 'ain't been used to living the way you have,
though you have had advantages that none of your folks ever had; but
if she likes you, that's all there is to it, I s'pose."
The old man sighed wearily. He sat in his arm-chair at the kitchen
fireplace; his wife had gone in to one of the neighbors, and the two
were alone.
"Of course," said Thomas, simply, "if Evelina Adams shouldn't live,
the chances are that I shouldn't have to bring her here. She wouldn't
have to give up anything on my account--you know that, father."
Then the young man started, for his father turned suddenly on him
with a pale, wrathful face. "You ain't countin' on that!" he shouted.
"You ain't countin' on that--a son of mine countin' on anything like
that!"
Thomas colored.
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