Chapter 44 - Page 2

service to one whom it is better not to name even here, I will not fail to do it for her dear daughter’s sake.”

I thanked him with my whole heart. What could I ever do but thank him! I was going out at the door, when he asked me to stay a moment. Quickly turning round, I saw that same expression on his face again; and all at once, I don’t know how, it flashed upon me as a new and far off possibility that I understood it.

“My dear Esther,” said my guardian, “I have long had something in my thoughts that I have wished to say to you.”

“Indeed?”

“I have had some difficulty in approaching it, and I still have. I should wish it to be so deliberately said, and so deliberately considered. Would you object to my writing it?”

“Dear guardian, how could I object to your writing anything for me to read?”

“Then see, my love,” said he with his cheery smile; “am I at this moment quite as plain and easy — do I seem as open, as honest and old-fashioned, as I am at any time?”

I answered, in all earnestness, “Quite.” With the strictest truth, for his momentary hesitation was gone (it had not lasted a minute), and his fine, sensible, cordial, sterling manner was restored.

“Do I look as if I suppressed anything, meant anything but what I said, had any reservation at all, no matter what?” said he, with his bright clear eyes on mine.

I answered, most assuredly he did not.

“Can you fully trust me, and thoroughly rely on what I profess, Esther?”

“Most thoroughly,” said I with my whole heart.

“My dear girl,” returned my guardian, “give me your hand.”

He took it in his, holding me lightly with his arm, and, looking down into my face with the same genuine freshness and faithfulness of manner — the old protecting manner which had made that house my home in a moment — said, “You have wrought changes in me, little woman, since the winter day in the stage coach. First and last you have done me a world of good, since that time.”

“Ah, guardian, what have you done for me since that time!”

“But,” said he, “that is not to be remembered now.”

“It never can be forgotten.”

“Yes, Esther,” said he with a gentle seriousness, “it is to be forgotten now; to be forgotten for a while. You are only to remember now, that nothing can change me as you know me. Can you feel quite assured of that, my dear?”

“I can, and I do,” I said.

“That’s much,” he answered. “That’s everything. But I must not take that, at a word. I will not