XXII
"Who has made my little girl cry?"
The quavering tones reminded George. He walked from the little room toward the others, and he saw that Old Planter had caught Sylvia's hand, had drawn her to him, had felt the tears on her cheeks.
There rushed back to George that ancient interview in the library at Oakmont, and here he was back at it, even in Old Planter's presence, making her cry again. He wondered what Old Planter had said when Lambert had told him who George Morton really was.
"You see, sir," he said, moodily, "I haven't changed so much from the stable boy, Morton, you once threatened to send to smash if——"
Sylvia broke in sharply.
"He's never been told——"
"What are you talking about?" the old man quavered. "Was there ever a Morton on my place, Sylvia? An old man, yes. He's dead. A young one——"
Slowly he shook his head from side to side. He peered suspiciously at George out of his dim eyes.
"I don't remember."
Suddenly he cried out with a flash of the old authority:
"I'm growing sensitive, Morton. No jokes! What's he talking about?"
Sylvia took his hand. Her lips trembled.
"Never mind, Father. Come."
And as he let her guide him he drifted on.
"Sylvia! Have you got everything you want? I'll give you anything you want if only you won't cry."
Outside rain had commenced to drizzle. From a tree in the little yard yellow leaves fluttered down. Old Planter hobbled into his study, Sylvia at his side. Betty followed George to the hall.
"Tell Sylvia I am very happy," he said.
She pressed his hand, whispering:
"The great George Morton!"