"If the matter were put before my father, he might write—"
"Hold your tongue, Guy!" thundered Aymer. "My father!—I'll starve first! You may swallow insult and contempt, if you like, and then lick the hand that strikes you, but I won't! What possessed my father when he married, I don't know; but well I know, he never loved mother. He broke her heart, to begin with, and then he lived on her hard earnings; and as to us, he wouldn't know if we were all dead and buried, nor care either. We are only so many memorials of his mistake—he—"
"Aymer dear," said a soft clear voice, which had not been heard before in this consultation. It was Clarice who spoke, and her dark blue eyes were raised gently to his angry face, as she lay there still and patient on her couch, just as she had lain for so many years.
Aymer turned and looked at her, his face softening, as it always did for her.
"Guy did not mean to vex you; and papa is our father, you know. She would not have let us speak so of him."
"That's true," said Aymer, frankly. "But, Guy, like a good fellow, say no more of writing."
"He won't," Clarice said; "only, you know, we must think of every plan until we hit upon the right one."
Then she took Guy's hand and coaxed it a little, until his face lost the angry flush his brother's words had called up, and he smiled at her.
"Blessed are the peace-makers."
"Well—but what can we do?" asked Helen, somewhat mournfully.