"By Jove! you speak strongly. Mention one of them."
"One of them stands before you now."
Philip turned and looked Mr. Hart straight in the face. Tears were gathering in the old man's eyes, and the young man turned away again, so that he should not see them.
"Forgive me, mate," he said softly; "I am so wrapt up in my own happiness that I am forgetful of the feelings of others."
"Ah, Philip, my son"--there was so tender an accent in the old man's tone, that the tears rose to Philip's eyes as well--"I also have a girl whom I love. See here, my dear boy. This is my daughter. She is at home in England, and I am here sixteen thousand miles away."
He had taken the picture of his darling from his pocket, and now he handed it to Philip. The young man looked at it in the clear moonlight. A round fresh face, open mouth with rosy lips, bright ingenuous eyes, fair curls around her white forehead. She was standing within an ivy porch, and one little hand was raised as though she were listening.
"It was taken seven years ago," said Mr. Hart; "she was twelve years old then."
"She is beautiful, beautiful!" exclaimed Philip enthusiastically. "And you haven't seen her since then?"
"No--and my old heart aches for a sight of her. This money that I am earning will take me to her."
"By Jove! and I was going to step in your way! Brute that I was! Margaret shall stop. I'll wait till the end of the time. I can see her every night; and I can build a wooden house for her in the meantime. God bless you, old boy! Give me your hand again. Next to my own father, you are the man I love and respect the most."