“Papa—is going—” She paused in dismay.
“It is not far; there is no danger for him; he takes an escort.”
“And he will leave me here?” She spoke tremulously, half to herself. She could hardly rest without the sense of the puissant paternal protection.
“His influence at Little Tamotlee is necessary,” explained Mervyn. “The Indians have great regard for him. His presence there will avert danger from the post,—Fort Prince George,—and may actually be necessary to save the old missionary’s life.”
“Then—who is to be left in command at Fort Prince George?” she asked.
“I shall be in command here, being next in rank.”
She still paused, facing him as they stood together on the rampart. She had turned a little pale. The breeze blowing gently from the shining river ruffled the tendrils of the hair on her forehead beneath the white fur of her violet hood and lifted the one long, soft golden curl that hung between its strings on her left shoulder. The simple attire, the wistful look, the doubtful, tremulous pause, made her seem very young, and appealing, and tender.
“You will be in command?” she repeated, interrogatively. Then—“Take care of Aunt Claudia,” she said, urgently. “Take care of—me.”
“I will, indeed,” he cried, heartily, wholly won. “Trust me, I will indeed!”