“Let us leave this place and seek for him,” I said, filled with a sympathy so deep that my very heart trembled. “If he is unhappy, you and I may do him some good.”
“Oh, child, if you could but remember. If I had but some little proof,” he answered, gazing at me impressively.
“Proof of what, Turner?—what can you wish to prove?”
“That in which nothing but God can help me!” was the desponding reply.
“It seemed to me,” said I, pressing each hand upon my temples, for they were hot with unavailing thought—“it seemed to me as if the thing that you wish to know was beating in my brain all the time. Something there is, blank and dark in my memory—how shall I bring it forth that you may read it?”
“Wait God’s own time, my child,” answered the old man, gently taking the hands from my temples, “sooner or later that which we wish to learn will be made clear. Come now, let us go home!”
“But they will not let us stay there, and I am ready to go,” I remonstrated.
“Yes, they will let us stay now,” he answered, with a grim smile.
“Why?”
“Because I shall marry the Spanish woman to-morrow.”