“Who calls? who calls? did some one say father?”
The carriage door sprang open, Cora leaped to the ground, sped like a bird up the walk, and disappeared in the porch. Directly, there came a strange sound through the open window—mingled sobs, caresses, and holy fragments of prayer, broken up with gushes of thanksgiving. Morton fell back in the carriage. I saw him cover his face with both hands, and felt that he trembled.
“Heaven forgive me!” he muttered “heaven forgive me the misery I have caused this good man!”
I was looking toward the parlor. Mr. Clark had fallen back in his chair, and Cora was bending over him. His face was like that of a glorified saint. His lips moved, but gave forth nothing but broken smiles. Cora fell forward, embracing his knees. Her beautiful face was uplifted like Guido’s Hope, but with a shadow of penitent sorrow upon it.
“Father! father!”
He stooped forward and folded the sweet, tearful face to his bosom, tenderly as the mother hushes her grieved infant.
“Bless thee, oh, my child! The God of heaven bless thee!”
Faithful to the holy type of Christianity, the good man was ready to forgive with the first breath of concession, even without knowing the extent of her fault.
“Father, you forgive us; see, it is my husband; I am very, very happy, father.”
Weary with our long journey, and overcome with emotion, Cora flung her arms around that honored neck; and just as her husband came up, fainted quite away on her father’s bosom.