A long pause ensued.
Joseline was conscious that her mind was in a tempestuous state of indecision. Should she speak? Should she disinter and lay before her father, the poor little skeleton of her own romance? Should she or not? After all, there is something that belongs to ourselves. And yet—and yet—— Her large eyes gazed into vacancy.
At last she faltered, in a low and shaken voice, “Well, father, there was some one once. You are right. A gentleman—and—he was—a real gentleman. He went away six years ago, when I was but a young slip of a thing, and it nearly broke my heart. And that’s all.”
“What was his name? Who was he?” he asked under his breath.
“Sure there’s no need to tell ye that, for”—and her face quivered—“I’ll never come across him again.”
“Irish, of course?”
She nodded. “There now, I’ve told ye, and ye know all there is to know about me. Promise me ye will never let on.”
“I promise faithfully. Did he give you the red dog?”
“No, he gave him to Mrs. Foley. And now we will never spake of him again.” Here two tears, which had been gathering, fell. “You have me only secret.”
As a servant entered with a telegram and turned up the electric light, her father looked searchingly at Joseline. Her face was white and haggard. “My little girl is tired?” he exclaimed.