“But why? Why?—Peter can’t have done anything wicked.”
“I’m going to ask him to tell you what he’s done, just as he told me. And then I want you to say what you think of him.”
It was hard to have to repeat his confession, but Peter did it. While he spoke, his father could feel how Glory’s body stiffened and trembled. Sometimes her eyes were unexcited, as though she were listening to an old story. Sometimes they were like stars, fixed and glistening. When the end was reached, she bowed her head on her uncle’s shoulder, shaken with deep sobbing. “Poor father! Oh, poor father!”
As she grew quiet, Barrington turned her face toward his. “And that,” he said, “is why Peter thinks he isn’t worthy. He’s waiting, Glory. You’ve not told him yet what you think of him.”
She looked toward Peter, dazed, as though not fully understanding. Then she saw how alone and upright he was standing; it dawned on her that he was really waiting for her to pronounce his sentence. She rose to her feet; her uncle’s arm still about her.
“Why—why, I think Peter’s the most splendiferous boy in the world.”
Barrington laughed. “D’you know, I didn’t dare to say it; but that’s just what I’ve been thinking all evening.”
It was only when Glory’s arms went about him that Peter sank below his standard of courage.
“I guessed it all the while,” she whispered; “I was waiting for you to tell me. Why wouldn’t you let me help you?”
Ah, why, why? How often in years to come would she ask him that question, not with her lips as now, but with her gravely following eyes!