"It was very beautiful of her to take so much trouble to quiet your mind, sir," said Magnus, watching the swift, pulsating colour in Cherry's fair cheek.
"Nay, I took very little of it to myself," said Mr. Erskine, going calmly on, as men will, through they know not what. "My heart ached for her that day when she came back with her pale face, and said so patiently, 'We must wait till to-morrow, papa.' Then at night they all came up here; and I had to say over everything I had ever known or heard about trains, letters, and—boys. You ought to be a good fellow, Magnus, with four such women-hearts watching over you."
"Yes, sir. Don't you think it might further the cause if they told me a little more about it?" said Magnus, with an innocent face.
"Papa—he knows quite enough for his good," Cherry remonstrated.
"Yes, and he might not like to hear it all," Mr. Erskine went on, in the same unconscious fashion. "Poor little girl! How her voice shook when she began to read to me that morning!"
"What did she read, sir?" Magnus questioned, with an odd change in his own.
"I think we were in the Revelation just then. Were we not, love?"
"Yes, papa,"—very low.
"Yes, I remember. 'The sea of glass,' and 'them that had gotten the victory.' Cherry read it as if she was ready to have the time come."
"Papa!"—it was almost a cry. "Why will you go back and bring that all up again? Cannot you find pleasanter things to tell him?"