"I hope so. It ought to be thus with all men—but especially with me."
I imagined from his tone that he was thinking of his responsibility as father, master, owner of large wealth. How could I know—how could I guess—beyond this!
"Do you think she looks pale, Phineas?" he asked suddenly.
"Who—your wife?"
"No—Maud. My little Maud."
It was but lately that he called her "his" little Maud; since with that extreme tenacity of attachment which was a part of his nature—refusing to put any one love in another love's place—his second daughter had never been to him like the first. Now, however, I had noticed that he took Maud nearer to his heart, made her more often his companion, watching her with a sedulous tenderness—it was easy to guess why.
"She may have looked a little paler of late, a little more thoughtful. But I am sure she is not unhappy."
"I believe not—thank God!"
"Surely," I said anxiously, "you have never repented what you did about Lord Ravenel?"
"No—not once. It cost me so much, that I know it was right to be done."