“But my father—surely my father’s house was open to you!”
“Not till he believed that he was childless. It was when the tidings of your shipwreck came that he asked me to come here. All his generosity to me, his very affections, were given on a false assumption. He gave me his love, as he gave me his fortune, because he did not know that the rightful heir to both was living.”
“No, no. I have heard, in the few hours that I have been here, of your tender care of him, and how he loved you.”
“He had none other,” said she, sorrowfully.
“Oh, Kate, how differently others speak of you than you yourself. What have I not heard of your devotion to these poor islanders; your kindness to them in sickness, and your cheering encouragement to them in their health. The very children told me of your goodness as I came along.”
“You gave me the true epithet a while ago, Harry.”
“I? What did I say?”
“You used a hard word, but a true one. You called me sordid,” said she, in a low, tremulous voice.
“Oh no, no! Never! I never said so. Oh, dear Kate, do not believe I could couple such a word with you.”
“I will not any more, since you have forgotten it; but in honest truth it was the very epithet my conduct merited. Let us speak of it no more, since it pains you. And now, Harry, there is daybreak. I must not ask you to stay here—here in your own house. I, the mere intruder, must play churlish host, and send you off to your inn.”