“Yes, I know that, and I know that tells the whole story. But, father, think what there is at stake. Your freedom—and—ours!”
“I know that, Maida dear, and you can never know how my very soul is torn as I try to persuade myself that for those reasons it would be right for me to consent. Yet——”
He passed his hand wearily across his brow, and then folding his arms on the table he let his head sink down upon them.
Maida flew to his side. “Father, dearest,” she crooned over him, as she caressed his bowed head, “don’t think of it for a minute! You know I’d give up anything—I’d give up Jeff—if it means one speck of good for you.”
“I know it, dear child, but—run away, now, Maida, leave me to myself.”
Understanding, both Maida and her mother quietly left the room.
“I’m sorry, girlie dear, that you have to be involved in these scenes,” Mrs. Wheeler said fondly, as the two went to the sitting-room.
“Don’t talk that way, mother. I’m part of the family, and I’m old enough to have a share and a voice in all these matters. But just think what it would mean, if father had his pardon! Look at this room, and think, he has never been in it! Never has seen the pictures—the view from the window, the general coziness of it all.”
“I know, dear, but that’s an old story. Your father is accustomed to living only in his own rooms——”
“And not to be able to go to the other end of the dining-room or living-room, if he chooses! It’s outrageous!”