“Father I can’t!” sobbed Joan, breaking down in a sudden agony. “Oh, please don’t ask me—I can’t!”
George drew her nearer, saying only—“My poor little girl!” and for a minute or two neither spoke.
“What was it, Joan?” he asked at length, when she had grown calmer; and the words that burst from Joan were not what he had expected:
“O, father, if only your heaven were mine too!”
“If my Master is yours, my heaven is yours, Joan.”
Joan laid her face against his hand, and made no answer. She knew he must not be agitated, and blamed herself already for giving way.
“What keeps you back from him, my Joan?” George asked.
“I don’t know! Oh, I don’t know!” Joan answered, with a deep sigh. “Sometimes I do seem to come to him, and to love him; but it all goes again. Please don’t talk more now; you will be so tired.”
“There was something else that I had to say. I have not felt equal to it until now—about—” and he faltered—“about your grandfather, Mr. Brooke.”
“He hasn’t been to the house. I don’t want ever to see him again,” Joan said resentfully. “It was he that made you so ill.”