Mother left me pretty much to myself: only I always felt she had her eye upon me, as if I wasn't to be trusted out of sight.
Father came in at dinner-time, and I was tongue-tied, as if I couldn't speak a word. Which was nonsense, for of course I could speak. It was want of will, not want of power, that held me back. And I had not prayed for help—at least, not freely and fully. I had the feeling still that I couldn't give up Walter.
Dinner was another silent meal. Father helped me, but he didn't talk, nor did mother. He looked so sad and downhearted, and once or twice I heard him give a great sigh.
Well, at last he got up to go, and a sort of desperate feeling came over me, that now was the turning-point, and that if I didn't speak then perhaps I never should. Besides, if I didn't keep my promise to Mr. Armstrong, nobody would ever believe me again. And with all this I felt too, so strangely, that I couldn't make myself, but God could make me; and I think I cried out in my heart for help.
Oh me! to think what I should have felt, after, if I hadn't said a word!
"Father!" I whispered, in a shaky sort of voice. He was near the door, but he heard me, and he turned round, straight.
I've often thought since how much that one word means, and how if we're sad or downhearted, or in trouble, or in temptation, it's often enough to cry out, or even just to whisper— "FATHER!" For that means everything, and the answer is sure.
I didn't say more. I was half choked, and couldn't. And perhaps there was no need.
He seemed to understand in a moment all I meant to say. Quick as possible he came back to where I sat, and took me in his arms, and held me tight—oh, so tight—like as if he was taking me into his heart. And the tears ran down his cheeks, dropping on my face.
"Kitty, you'll never do it again—never again!" says he hoarsely.