"No, father, no," said Nansie, struggling with her feelings; in the gathering dusk her father could not see the play of emotion in her features; and, indeed, during this latter recital she kept her face averted from him; "I am not yet at liberty to do so. Go on."
"For the distraction of an unhealthy fancy," he resumed, "which might grow into a disease--which might wreck the happiness of a life most dear to me, I called upon you by the tie which binds and unites us--I am not wrong, dear child, in saying it unites us?"
"No, my dear father, it unites us now and ever."
"My child!' I called upon you to accompany me in my wanderings, and you consented. I think I have stated it fairly Nansie?"
"Nothing, except"--and a delicious smile played upon her lips--"except that I love Kingsley."
"That is not new," he said, in a tone of whimsical reproach; "it is old. You have told me that before."
"It is always new to me, father. And there is something else I _must_ say."
"Neither is that new. Apart from this I sometimes have an odd idea that you have a secret which you are keeping from me."
"If I said I had, it would be half revealing it. Father, time will show."
"That is a wiser philosophy than that 'Everything will come right.' Time does and will show. Shall I now relate the story of your uncle?"
"It will not take me long. Your mother, my dear Nansie, had two ardent lovers, your father and your uncle."
"These are strokes of fate not to be avoided, and love, which unites, sometimes severs. It severed me and my brother, and neither he nor I, nor your mother, Nansie, was to blame for it. In youth we had a great affection for each other, although our characters were dissimilar. Our father was a poor gentleman--our family boat never floated into a golden stream--and he gave us as good an education as we could have gained in schools And colleges. He had a taste for books, and he cultivated the taste in us, his only children. He had ideas, too, and to be in his company was an entertainment. When he died he left each of us a little money, not more than a hundred pounds apiece, with which we were to seek our fortunes. We remained together, and in this association we became acquainted with your mother. By that time I had grown into a dreamer, and, I am afraid, a vagrant; your uncle was a dreamer also, but his visions were not entirely Utopian, and he was less of a Bohemian than I. He loved your mother passionately, and by force of fate we were rivals. We both tried our fortunes with her; it was not a case of one supplanting the other, but fair play on both sides; he failed and I succeeded. Your mother was a sweet and beautiful lady, and how I won her I know not."