"You think I'll forget her!" he cried angrily.
"Oh, David!" moaned Christine.
"You think I'll not care for her always--"
"Listen, David," said the mother patiently. "I can think of no greater
joy that could come to me than to see Christine your wife--some day.
But we must face the true conditions. She may always be a circus
rider. I hope to take her away from this life--yes, soon, may it
please God. You think now that you will always care. But I know the
world. I know youth too well. I--"
"But you were not much older than Christine when you were married," he
blurted out. He regretted the unhappy remark almost before it left his
lips. She turned away her face, and no word came in response for a
full minute. Then she ignored the tactless announcement.
"You must go your way, David. We will go ours. If God is good to us,
we may come together again, and we may still be happy. You are
eighteen, Christine is fifteen. You do not know your minds, my
children. I have thought it all out. You must be content to wait.
Christine must come to you from a different sphere, David. It is not
as it was.
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