“Yes, that's what I thought, and--What are you looking at?” she drew herself back from the table and followed the direction of his eye with a woman's instinctive apprehension of disarray. He was ashamed to tell. “Oh, nothing. I was just thinking.” “What?” “Well, I don't know. That it seems so strange any one else should have any to do with it--my family and yours. But I suppose they must. Yes, it's all right.” “Why, of course. If your family didn't like it--” “It wouldn't make any difference to me,” said Dan resolutely. “It would to me,” she retorted, with tender reproach. “Do you suppose it would be pleasant to go into a family that didn't like you? Suppose papa and mamma didn't like you?” “But I thought they did,” said Mavering, with his mind still partly on the rope and the fluffy ball, but keeping his eyes away. “Yes, they do,” said Alice. “But your family don't know me at all; and your father's only seen me once. Can't you understand? I'm afraid we don't look at it seriously enough--earnestly--and oh, I do wish to have everything done as it should be! Sometimes, when I think of it, it makes me tremble. I've been thinking about it all the morning, and--and--praying.” Dan wanted to fall on his knees to her. The idea of Alice in prayer was fascinating. “I wish our life to begin with others, and not with ourselves. If we're intrusted with so much happiness, doesn't it mean that we're to do good with it--to give it to others as if it were money?” The nobleness of this thought stirred Dan greatly; his eyes wandered back to the silken rope; but now it seemed to him an emblem of voluntary suffering and self-sacrifice, like a devotee's hempen girdle. He perceived that the love of this angelic girl would elevate him and hallow his whole life if he would let it. He answered her, fervently, that he would be guided by her in this as in everything; that he knew he was selfish, and he was afraid he was not very good; but it was not because he had not wished to be so; it was because he had not had any incentive. He thought how much nobler and better this was than the talk he had usually had with girls. He said that of course he would go home and tell his people; he saw now that it would make them happier if they could hear it directly from him. He had only thought of writing because he could not bear to think of letting a day pass without seeing her; but if he took the early morning train he could get back the same night, and still have three hours at Ponkwasset Falls, and he would go the next day, if she said so.