July 2. Thomasine is legally my daughter. It gives me an odd feeling to
find myself really a parent. George and Tom met here this forenoon with
the papers, and all necessary formalities were gone through with. It was
not a comfortable time for any of us, I fancy; and I must own that
George acted strangely. He was out of spirits, and was but barely civil
to Tom. He has never liked the idea of my having Thomasine, and has
tried two or three times to persuade me to give her up. I have refused
to discuss the question with him, because it was really settled already.
To-day he came before Tom, and made one more protest.
"You can keep the child if you are so determined," he said, "though why
you should want to I can't conceive; but why need you adopt it? It
hasn't any claim on you."
I told him that she had the claim that I loved her dearly. He looked at
me with an expression more unkind than I had ever seen in his face.
"How much is it for her father's sake?" he burst out.
The words, offensive as they were, were less so than the manner.
"A good deal," I answered him soberly. "I have been his friend from the
time we were both children."
He moved in his chair uneasily.
"Look here, Ruth," he said; "you've no occasion to be offended because I
hint at what everybody else will say."