"Oliver Pickersgill?" he said. "Then you are Oliver Pickersgill's son."
"Yes, Mr. Lannithorne. My father sent me here--my father, and Mrs. Lannithorne, and Ruth."
At his daughter's name a light leaped into Peter Lannithorne's eyes that made him look even more acutely and painfully alive than before.
"And what have you to do with Ruth, or her mother?" the man asked.
Here it was! The great moment was facing him. Oliver caught his breath, then went straight to the point.
"I want to marry your daughter, Mr. Lannithorne. We love each other very {40} much. But--I have n't quite persuaded her, and I have n't persuaded Mrs. Lannithorne and my father at all. They don't see it. They say things--all sorts of dreadful things," said the boy. "You would think they had never been young and--cared for anybody. They seem to have forgotten what it means. They try to make us afraid-- just plain afraid. How am I to suppose that they know best about Ruth and me?"
Lannithorne looked across at the young man long and fixedly. Then a great kindliness came into his beaten face, and a great comprehension. Oliver, meeting his eyes, had a sudden sense of shelter, and felt his haunting fears allayed. It was absurd and incredible, but this man made him feel comfortable, yes, and eager to talk things over.
{41}
"They all said you would know. They sent me to you."
Peter Lannithorne smiled faintly to himself. He had not left his sense of humor behind him in the outside world.