She was still wondering how she should break the news to him, when she found herself giving an odd little laugh, and asking, “Father, what is your favourite line of ocean steamers?”
Mr. Burtwell, who had really felt no special curiosity as to his daughter’s correspondent, was once more immersed in his evening paper. He looked up, at her 126 words, as all the family did, and was struck by the expression of her face.
“What makes you ask that?” he demanded sharply.
“Because I know you always keep your promises, and—there’s a letter you might like to read.”
Mr. Burtwell took the letter, frowning darkly, a habit of his when he was puzzled or anxious. He read the letter through twice, and then he examined the check. He did not speak at once. There was something so portentous in this deliberation, and something so very like emotion in his kind, sensible face, that even Ned was awed into respectful silence.
At last Mr. Burtwell turned his eyes to his daughter’s face, where everything, even suspense itself, seemed arrested, and said, in a matter-of-fact tone:
“I think you had better go by the North German Lloyd. Shall you start this week?”
“Oh, you darling!” cried Madge, throwing her arms about her father’s neck, regardless 127 of letter and check, which, being still in his hands, were called upon to bear the brunt of this attack; “How can I ever make up my mind to leave you?”