Do you think,' said Tom, with a grave smile, 'that even if she
had never seen him, it is very likely she would have fallen in love with
Me?'
'Why not, dear Tom?'
Tom shook his head, and smiled again.
'You think of me, Ruth,' said Tom, 'and it is very natural that you
should, as if I were a character in a book; and you make it a sort of
poetical justice that I should, by some impossible means or other, come,
at last, to marry the person I love. But there is a much higher justice
than poetical justice, my dear, and it does not order events upon the
same principle. Accordingly, people who read about heroes in books, and
choose to make heroes of themselves out of books, consider it a very
fine thing to be discontented and gloomy, and misanthropical, and
perhaps a little blasphemous, because they cannot have everything
ordered for their individual accommodation. Would you like me to become
one of that sort of people?'
'No, Tom. But still I know,' she added timidly, 'that this is a sorrow
to you in your own better way.'
Tom thought of disputing the position. But it would have been mere
folly, and he gave it up.
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