It was the 13th of March, 1897, and Jean Colchis had arrived home to his child. There was sadness in his eyes as he clasped his darling daughter to his heart; but a firm, determined expression overspread his countenance, as though he had fought some great battle, and felt himself the victor.
“Never again, dear old father, can I open this house to the world,” she said to him, as they sat and spoke of the past.
“And never again shall you, my child,” he had returned, holding her in a loving embrace.
“Let me leave the world and all it contains! Let me go and bury my body as I have my love! Father, I am dying!”
The time had come. Jean Colchis saw that not an hour was to be lost. Fate had ordained it; he must comply, though he murdered his beloved child!
“Grieve not, my child,” he tenderly said, “the future is bright and assured. I am going to take you to your husband!”
Like a burst of the sun through a dark and dreary sky, her eyes lighted up, and she sprang toward him, clasped him around the neck, and covered his face with kisses. Then she arose, staggered, and fainted. The good news was too sudden.
Two weeks after this eventful day, Jean Colchis and his daughter sailed away in the ship which had once before borne him out of the harbor. As the vessel passed through the Golden Gate, the father and daughter stood at the rail and took one last look at the life behind them.
“See! dear father,” Marie exclaimed, pointing to the shore on the south, while a bright smile illumined her face. “See! there is the Presidio, with its little houses! Junius lived there, once—Junius, my own, and to whom we are now hastening. God watch over him!”
“Amen!”