"Madge," she began, when she had read through the confused line or two,
in the half-boyish, half-clerkly hand of Robin, scribbled and dispatched
by the hands of Dick scarcely two hours ago. "Madge--"
She was about to say something sensible when the maid interrupted her
again.
"And it is I who have brought it all on him!" she wailed. "If it had not
been for me--"
Her mother laid a firm hand on her daughter's mouth. It was not often
that she felt the superior of the two; yet here was a time, plain
enough, when maturity and experience must take the reins.
"Madge," she said, "it is plain you do not love him; or you never--"
The maid started back, her eyes ablaze.
"Not love him! Why--"
"That you do not love him truly; or you would never have wished this for
him.... Now listen to me!"
She raised an admonitory finger, complacent at last. But her speech was
not to be made at that time; for her daughter swiftly rose to her feet,
controlled at last by the shock of astonishment.
"Then I do not think you know what love is," she said softly. "To love
is to wish the other's highest good, as I understand it."
Mrs. Manners compressed her lips, as might a prophetess before a
prediction. But her daughter was beforehand with her again.
"That is the love of a Christian, at least," she said. Then she stooped,
took the letter from her mother's knees, and went out.
Mrs. Manners sat for a moment as her daughter left her.
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