"You are sorry for it?"
She did not take her eyes away from his, as her quivering lips formed
the word "Yes," though her voice made no sound. He was silent again
now; looking on the ground, kicking softly at a loose pebble with his
foot. His thoughts did not come readily to the surface in the shape
of words; nor was he apt at giving comfort till he saw his way clear
to the real source from which consolation must come. At last he
spoke,--almost as if he was reasoning out the matter with himself.
"It seems as if there might be cases where--setting the question of
love entirely on one side--it must be almost a duty to find some one
to be a substitute for the mother. . . I can believe," said he, in
a different tone of voice, and looking at Molly afresh, "that this
step may be greatly for your father's happiness--it may relieve him
from many cares, and may give him a pleasant companion."
"He had me. You don't know what we were to each other--at least, what
he was to me," she added, humbly.
"Still he must have thought it for the best, or he wouldn't have done
it. He may have thought it the best for your sake even more than for
his own."
"That is what he tried to convince me of."
Roger began kicking the pebble again. He had not got hold of the
right end of the clue. Suddenly he looked up.
"I want to tell you of a girl I know. Her mother died when she was
about sixteen--the eldest of a large family. From that time--all
through the bloom of her youth--she gave herself up to her father,
first as his comforter, afterwards as his companion, friend,
secretary--anything you like. He was a man with a great deal of
business on hand, and often came home only to set to afresh to
preparations for the next day's work. Harriet was always there, ready
to help, to talk, or to be silent. It went on for eight or ten years
in this way; and then her father married again,--a woman not many
years older than Harriet herself. Well--they are just the happiest
set of people I know--you wouldn't have thought it likely, would
you?"
She was listening, but she had no heart to say anything. Yet she was
interested in this little story of Harriet--a girl who had been so
much to her father, more than Molly in this early youth of hers could
have been to Mr. Gibson. "How was it?" she sighed out at last.