The priest gently
laid his hand on the thick, brown hair.
"My son," he murmured.
"If the man that she is to marry were only different," Paul groaned. "If
he were only more worthy, if I could only think that she would be
happy."
He did not know that he was merely saying what every unfortunate lover
has thought since love and the world began; and it was a sad smile that
touched the sympathy of Father Orin's face.
"William Pressley is not a bad young fellow," the priest said. "He means
well. He lives uprightly according to his dull, narrow ideas of right.
And none of us can do any better than to live up to our own ideals.
It's a good deal more than most of us do. I am afraid he is selfish,"
with the hesitation which he always felt in pronouncing judgment upon
any one; "but then most of us men are, and maybe he will not be selfish
toward her, for he must be fond of her. Everybody loves the child."
"But about her--is she fond of him? How can she be?"
"I can't answer for that. There's no telling about a girl's fancy; in
fact, I have never given the engagement a thought.
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