"Look at me with
the same friendly, fearless eyes that you did last week! I know, my
dear, that you always think of others more than yourself, and I dare say
that _now_ you are afraid of hurting me! Indeed, you need not be! I am
tough and well-seasoned; I have known what pain is before now--it would
be very odd, at my time of life, if I had not! I can well bear a little
more, and be the better for it, perhaps."
I stand stupidly silent. One's outer man or woman often does an
injustice to one's inner feelings. As he speaks, my heart goes out to
him, but I can find no words in which to dress my thought.
"Nancy!" in a tone of thorough distress. "I can bear any thing but
seeing you shrink and shiver away from me, as I have seen you do from
your father."
"You _never_ will see that," reply I, laconically, gathering bravery
enough to look him in the face, as I deliver this encouraging remark.
"Do you think," he says, beginning to walk restlessly about the room--
(long ago he dropped my limp hand)--"that all this week I have had much
hope? Every time that I have caught a glimpse of myself in the glass, I
have said, 'Is this a face likely to take a child's fancy? Do you bear
much resemblance to the hero of her storybooks?' My dear"--(stopping
before me)--"you cannot think my presumption more absurd than I do
myself.
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