“I do not know if we shall be happy,” said I to Penelope, when she was cheering me with a future that may never come—“I only know that Max and I have cast our lots together, and that we shall love one another to the end.”
And in that strong love armed, I lived—otherwise, many times that day, it would have seemed easier to have died.
When I went, as usual, to bid papa goodnight, I could hardly stand. He looked at me suspiciously.
“Good night, my dear. By-the-by, Dora, I shall want you to drive me to the Cedars tomorrow.”
“I—I—Penelope will do it.” And I fell on his breast with a pitiful cry. “Only bid me good-bye! Only say 'God bless you,' just once, father.”
He breathed hard. “I thought so. Is it to be to-morrow?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
I told him.
For a few minutes papa let me lie where I was; patting my shoulder softly, as one does a sobbing child—then, still gently, he put me away from him.