Colonel Tracy hesitated an instant, gazing at Dorothea over the top of the sheet. Then he put it into her hand. It ran as follows:
"DEAR TRACY,—Your daughter tells me that you are ill, and speaks
of difficulties. Will you pardon me for venturing to send the
enclosed, and accept it for old friendship's sake? It may help
to put things straight; and I have enough and to spare besides.
I know—I feel sure—you will not distress me by a refusal."
"The card has reached me late this year, and I shall not send
it to you again. From this time, I shall keep it as one of my
greatest treasures.—Believe me, always and ever, your old friend
and comrade,"
"J. ERSKINE."
Dorothea's eyeglasses were wet before she reached the end. "O, what a man he must be!" she said.
"Well, yes, he always was a fine fellow. But I say—I don't like to be under this sort of obligation," said the Colonel, fingering the thousand pound note, frowning, and sitting bolt upright, quite forgetful of his extreme weakness.
"What do obligations matter? It only means that we shall love him, and be grateful. Father, you can't really hesitate. You couldn't, couldn't refuse! It would grieve him so terribly. And now you will be friends again, just as you were years and years ago. Think how delightful that will be! I do think it is quite lovely of Colonel Erskine!"
Dorothea dropped her face on her father's knee, and about equally surprised herself and him by an uncontrollable sob.
"Hallo!"
"I didn't mean—I'm not going to be stupid," said Dorothea, starting up, and trying to smile through her tears. "Only it is such a comfort to feel that you can pay that nine hundred pounds; and I can't tell you how I do admire dear old Colonel Erskine."
"Old! He's not old. Not two years my senior."
"Well, then,—that dear middle-aged Colonel Erskine," responded Dorothea, with a joyous but rather choky laugh. "Father, you'll write to him now—directly—won't you? And tell him how very very grateful you are."