"You would have been
a splendid one. As it is, a woman, made to be the delight of some man,
you must pass from me--to-morrow, next day, this time next year, who
knows how soon? Ah? now I know the direction my thought has been
trending. Just as I know you do, so do I recognize the inevitableness
of it and the justness. But the man, Frona, the man?"
"Don't," she demurred. "Tell me of your father's fight, the last
fight, the great lone fight at Treasure City. Ten to one it was, and
well fought. Tell me."
"No, Frona. Do you realize that for the first time in our lives we
talk together seriously, as father and daughter,--for the first time?
You have had no mother to advise; no father, for I trusted the blood,
and wisely, and let you go. But there comes a time when the mother's
counsel is needed, and you, you who never knew one?"
Frona yielded, in instant recognition, and waiting, snuggled more
closely to him.
"This man, St. Vincent--how is it between you?"
"I . . . I do not know. How do you mean?"
"Remember always, Frona, that you have free choice, yours is the last
word. Still, I would like to understand. I could . . . perhaps . . .
I might be able to suggest. But nothing more. Still, a suggestion . . ."
There was something inexpressibly sacred about it, yet she found
herself tongue-tied. Instead of the one definite thing to say, a
muddle of ideas fluttered in her brain.
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