I'm not impulsive--I think things out. I've
thought this out. I know Alan loves me--I know _how_ he loves
me--and I believe I can help him--oh, not in the ways I had fancied
before--but just merely by loving him." She paused, but Mrs. Quentin
made no sign. "I see it all so differently now. I see what an
influence love itself may be--how my believing in him, loving him,
accepting him just as he is, might help him more than any theories,
any arguments. I might have seen this long ago in looking at
_you_--as he often told me--in seeing how you'd kept yourself apart
from--from--Mr. Quentin's work and his--been always the beautiful
side of life to them--kept their faith alive in spite of
themselves--not by interfering, preaching, reforming, but by--just
loving them and being there--" She looked at Mrs. Quentin with a
simple nobleness. "It isn't as if I cared for the money, you know;
if I cared for that, I should be afraid--"
"You will care for it in time," Mrs. Quentin said suddenly.
Miss Fenno drew back, releasing her hand. "In time?"
"Yes; when there's nothing else left." She stared a moment at the
pictures. "My poor child," she broke out, "I've heard all you say so
often before!"
"You've heard it?"
"Yes--from myself. I felt as you do, I argued as you do, I acted as
I mean to prevent your doing, when I married Alan's father."
The long empty gallery seemed to reverberate with the girl's
startled exclamation--"Oh, Mrs. Quentin--"
"Hush; let me speak.
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