George drew Joan down into his arms, and held her tenderly—held her as one might hold a precious possession before parting with it.
“My Joan—my child,” he murmured—“the comfort of my life. But I give you up, my darling, if God so wills. It is right and just.”
“No, father,” Joan answered, growing white, “I do not believe that it is God’s will. She gave me up to you, and she cannot ask for me again.”
“If she did not—” George said slowly. “But Joan, my child, if she does, I consent. I dare not hold you back.”
“Father, I would not go,” said Joan gently. “I am not a little child now, and I must decide for myself.”
“If it is right,—you will do what is right,” George said. “That must come later. I cannot often think, or I would have seen her before this. She may not claim you, my darling; but if she did—”
“And if she did not, father dear?”
He smiled at the thought—a smile of sudden sunshine.
“But we must be willing,” he murmured—“willing, whatever God calls us to bear. The fight has been hard. I think I can consent now, from my heart. You have been a dear girl to me all these years, dear, past telling. Still, if we have to part, we can do it in obedience; and, after all, a mother’s claim! Yes, she forfeited it, perhaps, and yet—no, I cannot think clearly, my darling. I can only feel—only be willing, and our God will guide us.”
Joan had no voice with which to answer. She kissed him passionately and hastened away.