Her going filled my days with a
lingering and pervasive sadness. I saw in it sometimes the shadow
of a heavier loss than I dared to contemplate. She had come home
once a week from Ogdensburg and I had always had a letter
between times. She was ambitious and, I fancy, they let her go, so
that there should be no danger of any turning aside from the plan
of my life, or of hers; for they knew our hearts as well as we knew
them and possibly better.
We had the parlour to ourselves the evening before she went away,
and I read her a little love tale I had written especially for that
occasion. It gave us some chance to discuss the absorbing and
forbidden topic of our lives.
'He's too much afraid of her,' she said, 'he ought to put his arm
about her waist in that love scene.'
'Like that,' I said, suiting the action to the word.
'About like that,' she answered, laughing, 'and then he ought to say
something very, very, nice to her before he proposes - something
about his having loved her for so long - you know.
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