She found George Rutherford sleeping still, and sat down by his side to think over what had passed, only putting studiously aside any further recollections of Leo’s chilled manner. On the whole she was conscious of much relief and thankfulness. When her father awoke, asking the not unusual question, “What is my Joan thinking about?” she answered involuntarily, out of a full heart—
“Only those words, father—‘A present help in trouble!’”
“Have you began to learn their meaning, my dear?” he asked.
“I think so,” she said.
“That is well. Sometimes he sends the help in readiness for coming trouble,” George murmured.
“But I think the worst of my trouble is over now,” said Joan, speaking cheerfully. “Mother knows about the Cairns family, and about Marian—what ought I to call her?—and she says it doesn’t matter at all. She says I belong only to you and her, and not at all to Marian. I did feel afraid of what mother might say.”
“Marian Brooke is your mother, my child,” said George seriously.
“Must I call her so?” asked Joan, with reluctance. “It seems so unnatural: ‘My mother, Mrs. Brooke,’ or ‘Mrs. Brooke, my other mother!’ That is all I could say. Shall I ever have to see her, father? I should not like that.”
“Yes; I have been thinking. She ought to come here.”
“Oh no: it would be a worry for you. I’ll go to Cairns farm some day soon, and have an interview. It will be rather dreadful, but I shall get through somehow, I dare say. Of course I can’t pretend to be fond of her, and she could not expect it. She gave me up, and she has no right over me now.”