"But I had once meant better than that, and I am come back to my
old intention. I thought that I could hardly _secure myself_
in it better, Fred, than by telling you just what had gone on in me.
And now, do you understand me? I want you to make the happiness of her
life and your own, and if there is any chance that a word of warning
from me may turn aside any risk to the contrary--well, I have uttered it."
There was a drop in the Vicar's voice when he spoke the last words
He paused--they were standing on a patch of green where the road
diverged towards St. Botolph's, and he put out his hand, as if to
imply that the conversation was closed. Fred was moved quite newly.
Some one highly susceptible to the contemplation of a fine
act has said, that it produces a sort of regenerating shudder
through the frame, and makes one feel ready to begin a new life.
A good degree of that effect was just then present in Fred Vincy.
"I will try to be worthy," he said, breaking off before he could
say "of you as well as of her." And meanwhile Mr. Farebrother
had gathered the impulse to say something more.
"You must not imagine that I believe there is at present any
decline in her preference of you, Fred. Set your heart at rest,
that if you keep right, other things will keep right."
"I shall never forget what you have done," Fred answered.
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