Immediately the tides of her filial being were with him. If she denied him, she must hurt something to which her very blood bade her be faithful. The house of life, the father, mother, and their child,—these were the sacred three, and it might be her high emprise to keep their union holy.
"Can you be ready to-morrow?" he asked, with that emphasis his followers knew. "You will stay in town with me until we sail."
"Yes."
"Will you be ready?"
"I will be ready."
He got up and bent to kiss her forehead. But she retreated.
"No," she breathed. "I'll do it, father, but don't be kind to me."
He gave her a little pat on the shoulder, and a reassuring, "Nonsense! I'm always kind. We'll have famous times yet, my dear."
She stood droopingly while his steps went down the stairs and out through the veranda and ceased upon the grass. Then she opened her door and crossed the hall to grannie's room and tapped.
"Come in," called the kind old voice. Grannie was in bed, a candle by her, a book in her hand. She looked, in her nightcap, like a beautiful old baby. "I had to crawl in here," she said apologetically. "I get so stiff sitting about. But I don't want to sleep. Draw up the rocking-chair."