Owen noticed this, but it was impossible for
him to leave the room. For the last twelve years he had been
thinking about Innes, and wanted to tell him how Evelyn had been
loved, and he wanted to air his hatred of religious orders and
religion in general.
"I am afraid I am disturbing you, but I can't help; it," and he
dropped into a chair. "You have no idea, Mr. Innes, how I loved your
daughter."
"She always speaks of you very well, never laying any blame upon
you--I will say that."
"She is a truthful woman. That is the one thing that can be said."
Innes nodded a sort of acquiescence to this appreciation of his
daughter's character; and Owen could not resist the temptation to
try to take Evelyn's father into his confidence, he had been so long
anxious for this talk.
"We have all been in love, you see; your love story is a little
farther back than mine. We all know the bitterness of it--don't we?"
Innes admitted that to know the bitterness of love and its sweetness
is the common lot of all men. The conversation dropped again, and
Owen felt there was to be no unbosoming of himself that afternoon.
"The room has not changed. Twelve years ago I saw those old
instruments for the first time.
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