While deeply absorbed in sad reflection, Dorothy stole to his side and, looking up, wistfully, in his face, said:
“Dear papa, isn’t mama here, either?”
The question from the child, uppermost in her mind, aroused him from his heart-aching reverie. He looked at her sternly. “Mama,” he repeated; “child, breathe that name no more! Banish it from your memory! Oh, no, no, no! I did not mean that!” and he turned his head aside with downcast eyes, shocked and ashamed at his passionate outburst in the presence of his little child.
He sat down on a bench and put her on his knee, and as he did so became conscious of the child again looking wistfully in his eyes.
“Well, you are sorry for leaving mama in that old cabin, aren’t you?”
It forced him to turn his eyes away from her, and with a tremor of pain in his voice, muttered: “Twenty times the child has said that to me today,” and, turning to her, he said gently and with infinite compassion:
“Dorothy, you are too young to comprehend. It is my intention to remove you from the home of your birth, to take you East, and educate you there. Now, don’t trouble me with questions, dear,” and he kissed the fair young brow and, looking into her sweet innocent brown eyes, he saw reflected in them her mother’s.
Then he turned his head aside and muttered: “So much like her mother! Oh, Constance! Constance! My judgment condemns you, but my heart—my heart will not leave you!”
Down from the house leisurely strolled Mr. Harris and Hazel.
“His Grace has just communicated to me the most amazing information about Virginia. It is so absurd that I felt quite angry with him for mentioning it,” Hazel said quite seriously.