“Well, it is just that,” she said. “Any one,--you, Uncle David,--any one may say it is merely heartless, merely selfish of me to go my own way, to pay no attention to the wish--ah, it is much stronger than that--of my father. Or you may think that I don’t really know how strong his objection to my marriage is. I do know, I fully know. And knowing that, knowing also that he is my father, that I owe nearly everything to him, that he loves me and I love him, I am going to do, you may say, _as I choose_, throwing away all the love and the care he has spent on me, repudiating my debts to him. But I don’t. Oh, Aunt Susan, I don’t throw away his love or repudiate my debts. It is not fair to say that. Simply I can’t help it--I must. Something has come which is stronger than everything else. Ah, Aunt Susan, you know what it is.” Lady Susan’s delicate little china-looking face flushed suddenly. “Yes, dear, I know,” she said. “At least I know some of it. We women are meant to be wives and mothers. I know half of what a woman longs to know. And the half I know, dear Helen, is so very fine that it is worth making some little sacrifice for it.” “Sacrifice?” asked the girl. “Yes. I cannot tell you in great language what I mean, because I am not great in any way, so I will give you my advice in one short word. Wait. Love is so good that it will not spoil by being kept; it will only get more mature, more exquisite. And in the mean time you will have proved yourself a good daughter, too.” “But why--why?” asked the girl. “Nothing will ever change what father feels about it, nor what I feel. It only means that for six months more, or for a year more, or however long I wait, he and I will go through dreadful days. It is awful at home, Aunt Susan; you have no idea how awful. If it would get any better with waiting, I would do as you suggest.” The older woman was still smiling in the habitual way which Helen had so often thought so meaningless, so objectless. But now, as she looked, she saw there was a very cheerful patience about the smile which somehow she had not noticed before. “It is true it may not get better with waiting,” she said, “for it is possible it may not. But you will have done your best, not only thought your best. You will have made your action not, as you say, the parody of yourself, but the faithful expression of your very best self. You will have put your speech into no unsympathetic mouth, but into the mouth of a fine actor.” Another current seized the girl, sweeping her impetuously away. She laid her hand on her aunt’s knee. “Are you unhappy, Aunt Susan?” she asked. “Oh, I hope not. I always thought you were so contented, so--so occupied with all the duties you do so well.” Lady Susan, with the only movement of impatience that she had made perhaps for years, swept her hand away.