"Jean, my dear," said Mr. Trevelyan, looking at her. Then—
"Poor little girl!" came in a tone which she had never heard from him before.
He had been strongly stirred, and the underlying tenderness of the man for once pushed its way to the surface.
To Jean's utter amazement, she found herself sobbing, with her face on his shoulder, and one of his arms round her. Not only so, but as the paroxysm continued, he held her more tightly, and she heard him say—
"Never mind; don't be ashamed. You have done splendidly!—Like my own Jean!"
"O father!—If I could help it—"
"You can't just yet. Never mind. You won't be the worse for this."
Presently after a judicious pause—
"Now! Have you cried enough? I must make the tea."
Jean struggled manfully, and chained down the rising sobs; but she clung to him still, drawing long breaths of mingled pain and comfort. To her renewed amazement, his lips touched her brow with a light kiss.