She came to me.

"I hope you don't think I'm very bad, Daddy?" she said. "I'm sorry to
give you so much trouble, but something tells me I must go. I just have
to!"

I looked at her, as she walked rapidly away with the parson, and then sat
down on the steamer chair that had been brought up again, and for the
first time I felt that age was creeping up on me. It looks as if all of
us, ill or hale, poor or rich, are but the playthings of nature, bits of
flotsam on the ocean of human passions. Your poor dear sister, Jennie,
died young, and I believe that her life with me was a happy one as long
as she was spared. After a little while Helen began to fill some of the
emptiness she had left, but now there come again to me memories of a
sweet face, uplifted lovingly to my own, and I am overcome with a sense
of loss indescribable. And yet this is mingled with some pride. My
daughter is no doll-like creature, no romantic, unpractical fool destined
to be nothing but a clog to the man who may join his life to hers. She
will never lag behind and cry for help, and hers will be the power to
walk side by side with him. She can never be a mere bauble, and will play
her own part.

Oh! Jennie. The pluck of the child, the readiness with which she wants to
give the best of herself because she thinks it right and just, and
because she refuses to concede to others a monopoly of helpful love!

That young man, if he lives, will be a fit mate for any woman, but I
swear to you that if it comes to that I will insist upon paying the
salary of some man to take his place. I want my girl nearer to me than in
Sweetapple Cove!