He had mentioned teaching her how to read Latin one day when she had wandered into the library. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. “We are only in the dawn of the Age of Friendship,” he said, “when interest, I suppose, will take the place of passions. “Child!” he cried. ‘You see now how dangerous it is to play this lone hand. This is grace I am saying! Oh! my dear! all the joy and weeping of life are mixed in me now and all the gratitude.
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