Joan’s eyes fell.
“Father, I hope I shall be in heaven some day—because—because you will be there.”
“Because Christ your Lord will be there, Joan darling.”
A little pause, and then “No, father!” came distinctly.
“You do not love him, Joan?” The pain sounded in George’s voice this time. They had reached the copse, and were walking in a path amid young trees, all tinted with their autumn coloring.
“I don’t know,” Joan said, after a pause. “Yes, I think I love him, because he has made me your child. I always thank him for that—every day.”
“But you don’t love to think much of him?”
“Father, I’m always thinking of you,” Joan answered calmly. “Always—all day long. And when I’m not with you I only want to come back to you again. I do love God for giving you to me; and I always shall. But I don’t keep thinking of him, because I keep thinking so of you. How can I possibly help it?”
“God can teach you how, my dear,” he answered. “There is no other way.”