"You know that?" he asked, "and still are afraid? Why?"
The clear eyes looked up pathetically. "Because Con may not know, and I
may not be able to make him know--make him--forget!"
There was a moment's silence. Kendall was never to forget the magnolia
tree in its gorgeous, pink bloom; the droop of his strong, fine sister!
Sharply he recalled the night long ago when Truedale groaned and threw
his letters on the fire.
"Lyn, I hardly dare ask this, knowing you as I do--you are not the sort
to compromise with honour selfishly or idiotically--but, Lyn, the--the
other love, it was not--an evil thing?"
The tears sprang to Lynda's eyes and she flung her arms around her
brother's neck and holding him so whispered:
"No! no! At least I can understand that. It was the--the most beautiful
and tender tragedy. That is the trouble. It was so--wonderful, that I
fear no man can ever quite forget and take the new love without a
backward look. And oh! Brace, I must have--my own! Men cannot always
understand women when they say this. They think, when we say we want our
own lives, that it means lives running counter to theirs. This is not
so. We want, we must choose--but the best of us want the common life
that draws close to the heart of things; we want to go with our men and
along their way. Our way and theirs are the _same_ way, when love is big
enough.
Pages:
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212