her to give pain in such opposite quarters. But she wished that, instead of reproaches, however tender, he would give her help; he was certainly wise enough, and clever enough, to invent some issue from their troubles. She expressed this belief, and Morris received the assurance as if he thought it natural; but he interrogated, at first—as was natural too—rather than committed himself to marking out a course.
"You should not have made me wait so long," he said. "I don't know how I have been living; every hour seemed like years. You should have decided sooner."
"Decided?" Catherine asked.
"Decided whether you would keep me or give me up."
"Oh, Morris," she cried, with a long tender murmur, "I never thought of giving you up!"
"What, then, were you waiting for?" The young man was ardently logical.
"I thought my father might—might" and she hesitated.
"Might see how unhappy you were?"
"Oh, no! But that he might look at it differently."
