"She was, my dear. She was very lovely. But it wasn't just that--it
was a joyous something that I could not describe. It was as if she
were a bird, poised for flight. I know it now for what it was--the
very incarnation of the spirit of youth. And she _was_ young. Why,
Mary, she was not so many years older than you yourself, now."

I nodded, and I guess I sighed.

"I know--where the brook and river meet," I said; "only they won't let
_me_ have any lovers at all."

"Eh? What?" Father had turned and was looking at me so funny. "Well,
no, I should say not," he said then. "You aren't sixteen yet. And your
mother--I suspect _she_ was too young. If she hadn't been quite so
young--"

He stopped, and stared again straight ahead at the dancers--without
seeing one of them, I knew. Then he drew a great deep sigh that seemed
to come from the very bottom of his boots.

"But it was my fault, my fault, every bit of it," he muttered, still
staring straight ahead. "If I hadn't been so thoughtless--As if I
could imprison that bright spirit of youth in a great dull cage of
conventionality, and not expect it to bruise its wings by fluttering
against the bars!"

I thought that was perfectly beautiful--that sentence. I said it right
over to myself two or three times so I wouldn't forget how to write it
down here. So I didn't quite hear the next things that Father said.
But when I did notice, I found he was still talking--and it was about