CHAPTER IV.
MERLE'S LAST EVENING AT HOME.
"So it is all settled, Merle."
"Yes, Aunt Agatha," I returned, briskly, for she spoke in a lugubrious
voice, and as one sad face is enough beside the family hearth, I assumed
a tolerably cheerful aspect. If only Aunt Agatha's eyes would not look
at me so tenderly!
"Poor child!" she sighed; and then, as I remained silent, she continued
in a few minutes, "I wish I could reconcile myself more to the idea, but
I cannot help feeling a presentiment that you will live to repent this
strange step you are taking."
I found this speech a little damping, but I bore it without flinching.
One can never set out down some new road without a few friendly missiles
flying about one's ears. "Remember, I told you such and such a thing
would happen if you did not take my advice. I am only warning you for
your good." Alas! that one's dearest friend should be transformed into a
teasing gad-fly! What can one do but go straight across the enemy's
country when the boats are destroyed behind one? I always did think that
a grand action on Xenophon's part.
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