Maurice spoke cheerfully. It was as if a great load had suddenly been lifted from his soul.
Margaret pure, his hands free from blood-guiltiness, his little daughter within his grasp! It was like the opening of heaven to a spirit long tormented in the purifying fires.
Laura looked up triumphantly as she heard her father's words. "Didn't I say so?" she cried; "mon père was ill, and my own papa was taking care of him?" She stooped over L'Estrange: "Mon père, pauvre, cher père!" Then to Arthur and the guide: "Oh, please, lift him very gently. We must put him beside the fire. It will make mon père better."
She made an effort to raise his head on her small arm. And at her touch L'Estrange opened his eyes. "Ma fillette!" he whispered. Laura was satisfied.
"I have done him good already," she said, looking round at Arthur; "I said I could."
It was only when she had seen her friend raised, the burly Swiss supporting his head and shoulders, Arthur his feet, that she had eyes or words for Maurice. He rose with difficulty, the little one standing beside him and offering her small hand by way of assistance.
"Have you nothing to say to me, Laura?" he asked rather sadly as he walked, painfully at first, after Arthur and the guide, the little one trotting joyfully through the snow by his side.
She looked up at him: "You are my own papa?"
"Yes, Laura."