“It isn’t many asylums that would care to take them, I expect,” said Mrs. Boniface. “Poor little things, there’s a hard fight before them! But what was your plan?”
“Why, mother, it was just to persuade father to let them come to us for the five years. Of course it would be an expense to him, but I would teach them, and help to take care of them; and oh, it would be so nice to have children about the house! One can never be dull where there are children.”
“I knew she was dull at home,” thought the mother to herself. “It was too much of a change for her to come back from school, from so many educated people and young friends, to an ignorant old woman like me and a silent house. Not that the child would ever allow it.”
“But of course, darling,” said Cecil, “I wont say a word more about it if you think it would trouble you or make the house too noisy.”
“There is plenty of room for them, poor little mites,” said Mrs. Boniface. “And the plan is just like you, dear. There’s only one objection I have to it. I don’t like your binding yourself to work for so many years—not just now while you are so young. I should have liked you to marry, dear.”
“But I don’t think that is likely,” said Cecil. “And it does seem so stupid to let the time pass on, and do nothing for years and years just because there is a chance that some man whom you could accept may propose to you. The chances are quite equal that it may not be so, and then you have wasted a great part of your life.”
“I wish you could have fancied Herbert White,” said Mrs. Boniface wistfully. “He would have made such a good husband.”
“I hope he will to some one else. But that would have been impossible, mother, quite, quite impossible.”
“Cecil, dearie, is there—is there any one else?”
“No one, mother,” said Cecil quietly, and the color in her cheeks did not deepen, and Mrs. Boniface felt satisfied. Yet, nevertheless, at that very moment there flashed into Cecil’s mind the perception of the real reason which had made it impossible for her to accept the offer of marriage that a week or two ago she had refused. She saw that Frithiof Falck would always be to her a sort of standard by which to measure the rest of mankind, and she faced the thought quietly, for there never had been any question of love between them; he would probably marry the pretty Miss Morgan, and it was very unlikely that she should ever meet him again.