After all, there was
something in him so different from other men, even from Arthur
Campbell. There was always some deep, happy meaning to his simplest
words, and his most commonplace conceptions of things were flavored
with this mystifying attraction whatever it was.
That he had had some peculiar experience was evident in his every
look, and tone, and word. His very reserve betrayed him and excited
people's curiosity about his past career. I had known him all my life,
and he had always been the same. I had sat upon his knee with my tiny
arms twined about his neck, he had told me thrilling tales, had played
with me, and had kissed me--not often--but on two or three occasions
the last time was just before I went to school. Then, when I came
back--how strange it was--he seemed surprised to see me grown and
matured, while he apparently had remained the same.
I suppose he saw that I was no longer the dependent child who confided
to him her petty joys and sorrows, but a young lady, self-conscious
and reserved to a certain extent; a young lady with her own pronounced
tastes and settled opinions, whose life had drilled out into an
independent channel away from the early source which he had been
pleased to control and guide.
Perhaps he was taking the right course, and that I had no need to feel
disappointed over his attitude towards me, but I was disappointed all
the same. I thought he would always be a dear friend, on whom I could
lean and rely, but here my thought was checked.
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