“Father, I do think you needn’t make me so miserable the very last day here,” sobbed Joan.
“I did not mean to make you cry. But, Joan, my dear—there, don’t sob. Sit down here for a moment. What has grieved you so? Did you think me unkind?”
“Oh, no, no,” said Joan, with a kind of indignant energy. “Only, please, please don’t talk of that. Anything but that, please.”
“What—of my having to leave you some day?”
“Yes;” and another flow of tears.
George’s strong hand came over hers.
“And yet it has to be,” he said—“it has to be. One or the other may go first, but the good-bye will have to be spoken—unless indeed the King comes first to earth in his glory. Joan, would that be good-bye between you and me? Or if the good-bye is spoken in death, must it be for ever?”
Joan shook with sobs, and George bent towards her pityingly.
“Think it over, dear one, and pray it over. Don’t let there be any doubt on that matter. Now we are not going to talk any longer about sad subjects. I am sure you will not forget. Have I been very cruel?”
Joan murmured something about “Never are.”