“Decided whether you would keep me or give me up.”
“Oh, Morris,” she cried, with a long tender murmur, “I never thought of giving you up!”
“What, then, were you waiting for?” The young man was ardently logical.
“I thought my father might—might—” and she hesitated.
“Might see how unhappy you were?”
“Oh no! But that he might look at it differently.”
“And now you have sent for me to tell me that at last he does so. Is that it?”
This hypothetical optimism gave the poor girl a pang. “No, Morris,” she said solemnly, “he looks at it still in the same way.”
“Then why have you sent for me?”
“Because I wanted to see you!” cried Catherine piteously.