"Oh, she can marry," went on Harry. "No difficulty about that. She has
another beau who loves her to distraction, and who doesn't in the least
suspect--a decent sort of a fellow, a young farmer of her own class."
"And, in your belief, that wedding should go on?"
He shifted uneasily.
"When is this wedding to be?" I asked.
"Oh, naturally, very soon," he answered. "I am doing as handsome a thing
as I know how by her. Sometimes it's mighty hard to do the handsome
thing--even mighty hard to know what is the handsome thing itself."
"Yes," said I. But who was I that I should judge him?
"If you were just where I am," asked Harry Sheraton, slowly, "what would
you do? I'd like to do what is right, you know."
"Oh no, you don't, Harry," I broke out. "You want to do what is easiest.
If you wanted to do what is right, you'd never ask me nor any one else.
Don't ask me, because I don't know. Suppose you were in the case of that
other young man who loves her? Suppose he did not know--or suppose he
_did_ know. What would be right for him?"
"Heavy end of the log for him," admitted he, grimly. "That's true, sure
as you're born."
"When one does not love a girl, and sees no happiness in the thought of
living with her all his life, what squares that, Harry, in your
opinion?"
"I've just asked you," he rejoined.
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