know that I should be much except a hindrance to her. And I think I
could stay and do something here, in some way. Uncle Titus, I hate
the thought of going to Europe! Now, don't you suppose I ought to
go?"

"_Why_ do you hate the thought of going to Europe?" asked Uncle
Titus, regarding her with keenness.

"Because I have never done anything real in all my life!" broke
forth Desire. "And this seems only plastering and patching what
can't be patched. I want to take hold of something. I don't want to
float round any more. What is there left of all we have ever tried
to do, all these years? Of all my poor father's work, what is there
to show for it now? It has all melted away as fast as it came, like
snow on pavements; and now his life has melted away; and I feel as
if we had never been anything real to each other! Uncle Titus, I
can't tell you _how_ I feel!"

Uncle Titus sat very still. His hat was in one hand, and both
together held his cane, planted on the floor between his feet. Over
hat and cane leaned his gray head, thoughtfully. If Desire could
have seen his eyes, she would have found in them an expression that
she had never supposed could be there at all.

She had not so much spoken _to_ Uncle Titus, in these last words of
hers, as she had irresistibly spoken _out_ that which was in her.
She wanted Uncle Titus's good common sense and sense of right to
help her decide; but the inward ache and doubt and want, out of
which grew her indecisions,--these showed themselves forth at that
moment simply because they must, with no expectation of a response