"Why, no, not altogether; or not so much so as it might be in different
circumstances. I make every allowance for her. In the first place, she
is a great sufferer."
"Yes, I know," my wife relented.
"She suffers terribly from asthma. I don't suppose she has lain down in
bed for ten years. She sleeps in an easy-chair, and she's never quite
free from her trouble; when there's a paroxysm of the disease, her
anguish is frightful. I've never seen it, of course, but I have heard
it; you hear it all through the house. Edith has the constant care of
her. Her mother has to be perpetually moved and shifted in her chair,
and Edith does this for her; she will let no one else come near her;
Edith must look to the ventilation, and burn the pastilles which help
her to breathe. She depends upon her every instant." He had grown very
solemn in voice and face, and he now said, "When I think of what she
endures, it seems to me that it is I who am cruel even to dream of
taking her daughter from her."
"Yes," my wife assented.
"But there is really no present question of that We are very happy as it
is. We can wait, and wait willingly till Mrs. Bentley wishes us to wait
no longer; or--"
He stopped, and we were both aware of something in his mind which he put
from him. He became a little pale, and sat looking very grave. Then he
rose. "I don't know whether to say how welcome you would be at St.
Michael's to-morrow, for you may not be--"
"_We_ are Unitarians, too," said Mrs. March. "But we are coming to hear
_you_."
"I am glad you are coming _to church_," said Glendenning, putting away
the personal tribute implied with a gentle dignity that became him.