“You think it would be right?”
“I do.”
There were long pauses between each of these questions, but my sister's answers were unhesitating. The grave decision of them seemed to smite home—home to the very heart of Francis Charteris. When his confusion and surprise abated, he stood with eyes cast down, deeply pondering.
“Poor little soul!” he muttered. “So fond of me, too—fond and faithful. She would be faithful to me to the end of my days.”
“I believe she would,” answered Penelope.
Here arose a piteous outcry of “Daddy, Daddy!” and little Franky, bursting from the cottage, came and threw himself in a perfect paroxysm of joy upon his father. Then I understood clearly how a good and religious woman like our Penelope could not possibly have continued loving, or thought of marrying, Francis Charteris, any more than if, as she said, he had been another woman's husband.
“Dora, pray don't take the child away. Let him remain with his father.”
And from her tone, Francis himself must have felt—if further confirmation were needed—that now and henceforth Penelope Johnston could never view him in any other light than as Franky's father.
He submitted—it always was a relief to Francis to have things decided for him. Besides, he seemed really fond of the boy. To see how patiently he let Franky clamber up him, and finally mount on his shoulder, riding astride, and making a bridle of his hair, gave one a kindly feeling, nay, a sort of respect, for this poor sick man whom his child comforted; and who, however erring he had been, was now, nor was ashamed to be, a father.
“You don't hate me, Franky,” he said, with a sudden kiss upon the fondling face. “You owe me no grudge, though you might, poor little scamp! You are not a bit ashamed of me; and, by God! (it was more a vow than an oath) I'll never be ashamed of you.”