"Oh! Mr. Considine. How very nice of you to say so. But don't! It is really too dreadful. It is horrible. I never did hear anything so frightful. And you say that Ralph Herkimer did this abominable deed? Are you sure you are not mistaken? Or it may have been an accident."
"Not a bit of it. I saw him as plain as I see you, and it was no accident. I saw him shoulder his gun to fire again, while I was struggling in the water, in case I had succeeded in gaining my boat."
"You will have him taken up, Mr. Considine? It seems wrong--and dangerous to leave such a person at large."
"I would if it were not for his wife. But you know how she would suffer. She never would be able to show face again. No! For her sake I mean to let the thing pass; and you must promise me, Miss Matilda, you will never mention it."
"How noble of you! Mr. Considine. I shall never be able to look at the ruffian again. And his son is here constantly. But we must put a stop to that. It will vex poor Muriel, I fear, but she will see the reason of the thing. You will allow me to explain to Muriel? There they go; passed the window this very minute. The assassin!"
"Nay! Miss Matilda. Let me intercede for the lad. There is no harm in my young friend Gerald. A fine manly youngster--his mother's son, every inch of him. No, no, my little Muriel--forgive the freedom--must know least of all. Young love! Miss Matilda. It is a charming sight to see. So full, and so trusting--so all-in-all, and yet so delicate and dainty. So fleeting, sometimes. Always so fragile and so irreparable if it gets a bruise. So hopeless to try and bring back its early lustre if once it grows dim. So--but--I'm a maundering old fogey, I suppose. Forgive an old bachelor's drivel, Miss Matilda."
"There's nothing to forgive, Mr. Considine. I sympa--I agree with--it's all so true! There's nothing like youth in all the world, and--love--but, there now! These are things which middle-aged people have no business with----"
"But surely, Miss Matilda. We--they--the middle-aged--have business with that? If our hearts have remained unwithered by the world--if there should still be a germ of life at the core, though hidden by the rind which time brings for a protection, like the scales on a hyacinth root in a gardener's drawer, do you not think it allowable and even fitting, that when warmth gets at them, and moisture, they may sprout forth worthily, even if out of season, each after its kind? Do you suppose a sound heart can ever grow incapable of love. Miss Matilda? Will love ever die?"