“I thought you were in Canada,” said the colonel, at last. Mr. Digby had now got breath to speak, and he said meekly, “The climate would have killed my child, and it is two years since I returned.”
“You ought to have found a very good place in England to make it worth your while to leave Canada.”
“She could not have lived through another winter in Canada,—the doctor said so.”
“Pooh,” quoth the colonel.
Mr. Digby drew a long breath. “I would not come to you, Colonel Pompley, while you could think that I came as a beggar for myself.”
The colonel’s brow relaxed. “A very honourable sentiment, Mr. Digby.”
“No: I have gone through a great deal; but you see, Colonel,” added the poor relation, with a faint smile, “the campaign is well-nigh over, and peace is at hand.”
The colonel seemed touched.
“Don’t talk so, Digby,—I don’t like it. You are younger than I am—nothing more disagreeable than these gloomy views of things. You have got enough to live upon, you say,—at least so I understand you. I am very glad to hear it; and, indeed, I could not assist you—so many claims on me. So it is all very well, Digby.”
“Oh, Colonel Pompley,” cried the soldier, clasping his hands, and with feverish energy, “I am a suppliant, not for myself, but my child! I have but one,—only one, a girl. She has been so good to me! She will cost you little. Take her when I die; promise her a shelter, a home. I ask no more. You are my nearest relative. I have no other to look to. You have no children of your own. She will be a blessing to you, as she has been all upon earth to me!”