"She would be safe with me, Peregrine," said he gently, "secure from
every evil--and from every chance of molestation."
"I know that, sir."
"She would be cherished and loved as sacredly as--my own
daughter--might have been."
"I am sure of it, sir--and yet--"
"Well, Peregrine?"
"Two years, sir," I faltered. "It--it is an age--"
"You are both children, Peregrine, but in two years, as I understand,
you will be of age, a man, master of your fortune--and she a woman,
clever, accomplished and perhaps famous."
"And may have forgotten me!"
"Do you think so, Peregrine?"
"No!" said I. "No!"
"Nor do I, boy. Such as she, being deep and reverent of soul, do not
love lightly, and never forget. On the contrary, with her growing
knowledge and experience, surely her love for you will grow also; it
must do. If she loves you to-day, child of nature as she is, how much
greater will be her capacity for love as an educated woman, knowing
that it is to your unselfishness, first and foremost, that she owes so
very much?"
After this was silence again wherein I watched my companion disjoint
his fishing rod.
"Sir," said I at last, "yours is a very noble and generous offer--"
"Tush!" he exclaimed a little sharply. "I am a solitary old man who
yearns for a daughter."
"Sir, in less than a fortnight is--the day--our wedding day--"
"Then," said his lordship, rising, "God's blessing on that day,
Peregrine, and on each of you.
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