“Dr. Spencer told us. Did not you meet him?”
“No. I read it at Bramshaw’s office. How—” He could not say the words, but he looked towards the room, and wrung the hand he held.
“Quiet. Like herself. Come.”
He threw one arm round Ethel, and laid his hand on her head. “How much there is to be thankful for!” he said, then advancing, he hung over Margaret, calling her his own poor darling.
“Papa, you must forgive me. You said sending him to sea was giving him up.”
“Did I. Well, Margaret, he did his duty. That is all we have to live for. Our yellow-haired laddie made a gallant sailor, and—”
Tears choked his utterance—Margaret gently stroked his hand.
“It falls hard on you, my poor girl,” he said.
“No, papa,” said Margaret, “I am content and thankful. He is spared pain and perplexity.”
“You are right, I believe,” said Dr. May. “He would have been grieved not to find you better.”