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Passion is a terrible enemy to mere affection. Walter Clifford loved his father dearly, yet for twenty-four hours he had almost forgotten him. But the moment he turned his horse's head toward Clifford Hall, uneasiness and something very like remorse began to seize him. Suppose his father had asked for him, and wondered where he was, and felt himself deserted and abandoned in his dying moments. He spurred his horse to a gallop, and soon reached Clifford Hall. As he was afraid to go straight to his father's room, he went at once to old Baker, and said, in an agitated voice,
"One word, John—is he alive?"
"Yes, sir, he is," said John, gravely, and rather sternly.
"Has he asked for me?"
"More than once or twice, sir."
Walter sank into a chair, and covered his face with his hands. This softened the old servant, whose manner till then had been sullen and grim.
"You need not fret, Mr. Walter," said he; "it's all right. In course I know where you have been."
Walter looked up alarmed.
"I mean in a general way," said the old man. "You have been a-courting of an angel. I know her, sir, and I hope to be her servant some day; and if you was to marry any but her, I'd leave service altogether, and so would Rhoda Milton; but, Mr. Walter, sir, there's a time for everything: I hope you'll forgive me for saying so. However you are here now, and I was wide-awake, and I have made it all right, sir."