But
her worship was increased by this very hopelessness, this elevation. It
pleased her that the object of her adoration should bend always above
her--that in her dreams he should preach a perpetual sermon and wear an
imperishable surplice.
"Well, I'm sorry for you," said Abel; "I'm sorry for you." And indeed he
was. "You're a good, pious, virtuous girl--just the sort of a girl a man
would want for his wife."
"I try to be good and I don't see why I should be so--so unhappy,"
sobbed Judy. "There ain't a better hand for raisin' chickens and flowers
and young lambs in the county."
Again she looked up at him through her tears, and the fool that lies at
the bottom of all generous hearts rose instantly to her bait. As he had
once been the sport of his desire, so he was to become now the sport of
his pity.
"Any man ought to be proud to have you for his wife, Judy," he said.
"Ought they, Abel?" she replied passionately, with the vision of the
Reverend Orlando rising in serene detachment before her.
For a moment he gazed down at her without speaking. It was pleasant to
feel pity; it was more than pleasant to receive gratitude in return.
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