“Well, but how—we only want eighteen—here, put the rest back, child—but how did you know about it?” said Caleb, who, in his unconquerable indifference to money, was beginning to be chiefly concerned about the relation the affair might have to Mary’s affections.
“Fred told me this morning.”
“Ah! Did he come on purpose?”
“Yes, I think so. He was a good deal distressed.”
“I’m afraid Fred is not to be trusted, Mary,” said the father, with hesitating tenderness. “He means better than he acts, perhaps. But I should think it a pity for anybody’s happiness to be wrapped up in him, and so would your mother.”
“And so should I, father,” said Mary, not looking up, but putting the back of her father’s hand against her cheek.
“I don’t want to pry, my dear. But I was afraid there might be something between you and Fred, and I wanted to caution you. You see, Mary”—here Caleb’s voice became more tender; he had been pushing his hat about on the table and looking at it, but finally he turned his eyes on his daughter—“a woman, let her be as good as she may, has got to put up with the life her husband makes for her. Your mother has had to put up with a good deal because of me.”
Mary turned the back of her father’s hand to her lips and smiled at him.
“Well, well, nobody’s perfect, but”—here Mr. Garth shook his head to help out the inadequacy of words—“what I am thinking of is—what it must be for a wife when she’s never sure of her husband, when he hasn’t got a principle in him to make him more afraid of doing the wrong thing by others than of getting his own toes pinched. That’s the long and the short of it, Mary. Young folks may get fond of each other before they