He does not answer; it seems to me that he is considering what response to make. "Perhaps," say I, still with a poor assumption of lightness and gayety, "perhaps you were talking of--of old times." He laughs a little, but _whose_ laugh has he borrowed? in that dry, harsh tone there is nothing of my Roger's mellow mirth! "Not we; old times must take care of themselves; one has enough to do with the new ones, I find." "Did she--did she say any thing to you about--about _Algy_, then?"--hesitatingly. "We did not mention his name." There is something so abrupt and trenchant in his tone that I have not the spirit to pursue my inquiries any further. In deep astonishment and still deeper mortification, I pursue my way in silence. Suddenly Roger comes to a stand-still. "Nancy!" he says, in a voice that is more like his own, stopping and laying his hands on my shoulders; while in his eyes is something of his old kindness; yet not quite the old kindness either; there is more of unwilling, rueful yearning in them than there ever was in that--"Nancy, how old are you?--nineteen, is it not?" "Very nearly twenty," reply I, cheerfully, for he has called me "Nancy," and I hail it as a sign of returning fine weather; "we may call it twenty; will not it be a comfort when I am well out of my teens?" "And I am forty-eight," he says, as if speaking more to himself than to me, and sighing heavily; "it is a _monstrous_, an _unnatural_ disparity!" "It is not nearly so bad as if it were _the other way_," reply I, laughing gayly; "I forty-eight, and _you_ twenty, is it?" "My child! my child!"--speaking with an accent of, to me, unaccountable suffering--"what possessed me to _marry_ you? why did not I _adopt_ you instead? It would have been a hundred times more seemly!" "It is a little late to think of that now, is not it?" I say, with an uncomfortable smile; then I go on, with an uneasy laugh, "that was the very idea that occurred to us the first night you arrived; at least, it never struck us as possible that you would take any notice of _me_, but we all said what a good thing it would be for the family if you would adopt Barbara or the Brat." "Did you?" (very quickly, in a tone of keen pain); "it struck you all in the same light then?" "But that was before we had seen you," I answer, hastily, repenting my confession as soon as I see its effects. "When we _had_, we soon changed our tune." "_If_ I _had_ adopted you," he pursues, still looking at me with the same painful and intent wistfulness, "if I had been your father, you would have been fond of me, would not you? Not _afraid_ of me--not afraid to tell me any thing that most nearly concerned you--you would perhaps"--(with a difficult smile)--"you would perhaps have made me your _confidant_, would you, Nancy?" I look up at him in utter bewilderment. "What are you talking about? Why do I want a confidant? What have I to confide? What have I to tell any one?"