"Come to me, fillette," he answered, and with his left hand he drew her face to his.
The child smiled: "Pauvre cher père, why do you look so sorry? You ought to look glad, because we're all going back to mamma. Oh, I am so happy! That night, mon père, you remember, when you were out in the snow, and I thought you were lost, and I was to be left alone with people who said cross things, I wasn't happy then; but now it's all right. My papa is found—and," she lowered her voice as if speaking in confidence, "I think I shall love him too—then we shall see mamma again—"
She stopped suddenly, for the tears were falling one by one over her companion's face. To a stronger heart than Laura's the sight would have been pitiful. This stern, self-contained man did not often express his feelings. Even the child he loved had trembled sometimes as she looked at his dark, strong face—even she had feared to intrude upon his silence; now all was broken down. Weakness as of a little child had taken hold upon him. Laura was very much distressed. With tears of sympathy in her own eyes, she stroked the dark, passionate face, murmuring gentle words.
He spoke at last, and there was a sternness in his voice that might have repelled the child had she not known her friend so well. "Laura," he said, "you must not again say such things as these; you must try and understand, little one. What must be, must be; and thou and I must part. Hush! hush!"
For Laura's face was averted; she had hidden it in the bed-clothes; she was weeping in the silent, unchildlike way that once or twice before had moved L'Estrange so deeply. In his weakness the man had much difficulty in preventing himself from giving way once more and weeping with her, but he controlled himself, for he was determined that no one but himself should make her understand.
"Laura," he said very tenderly, laying his left hand on the soft, golden head he loved so well, "it is necessary—you must go. I am not worthy of this love, and your mother is waiting for you."
"But, mon père—" Laura lifted up her tear-stained face and met his deep, stern eyes. Her voice faltered, for, child as she was, she read his resolve. "You will be better," she said, "and come too."
"Never," he answered slowly. "Listen, little one." He put away the hair from her face and looked at her long and tenderly: "In years to come—ah, petite, long, long years—after your friend has been put away under the ground, ma fillette will be a woman, tall and beautiful and good; then she will know and understand that this thing is right; then she will know that her friend, who loved her, acted for the best in this—that what my Laura desires would not be possible. She must say to her old friend good-bye; she must go away to those who love her; not better—that could not be—but to those who have a greater right to her love. Why do you care for me, fillette? Ah, mon Dieu! it is painful," he added as if to himself, for the child's sobs had never ceased.
He drew her face down to him again: "Little bird, it is not well. These deep feelings give me grief. Thine is the age of laughter. Think then of la pauvre maman—she is weeping too."