“No, no, no,” Joan answered hurriedly and with anger. “No, no—not that, but the valley in Wales!” She turned to the bed, and said fondly, “Yes, father dear—that was where you found your little Joan, was it not?”
He evidently understood, and looked up, smiling, his hand clasping hers.
“My comfort! My child!” he said tenderly.
“Dear, dear father!” burst passionately from Joan’s lips.
“Hush, don’t agitate him,” Leo whispered. But George only smiled again, seeming rather to be roused than agitated.
The thought of the valley haunted him for a while, mingled with recollections of the anxiety which had weighed upon him recently.
“The bridge has to be crossed,” he murmured, lifting his eyes to his wife. “Yes—come, my Dulcie, no need to fear. The Master’s hand is strong enough. ‘O thou of little faith!’... Sometimes over a difficult way—and flesh and flesh and heart may fail.... But he is our portion, for ever and ever! So foolish ever to fear!... And all will be well—as he wills. No need to choose. He has cared for the child. He will never forsake—never fail her.... My little Joan, I have loved her very tenderly.... But if the call has come—Father, thy will, not mine.... Yes—as thou willest.... A hard bridge to pass over—but as thou wilt.”
Joan found it difficult to restrain herself, listening to him.
A little later he was uttering other words, connected in his mind, with memories of the fair Welsh valley:—
“Come thou must, and we must die,