Maud sprang up—the rebellious spirit flashing out again. "Not tell me—me, his pet—me, that cared for him more than any of you did. I think you ought to tell me, father."
"You must allow me to decide that, if you please."
After this answer Maud paused, and said humbly, "Does any one else know?"
"Your mother, and your uncle Phineas, who happened to be present at the time. No one else: and no one else shall know."
John spoke with that slight quivering and blueness of the lips which any mental excitement usually produced in him. He sat down by his daughter's side and took her hand.
"I knew this would grieve you, and I kept it from you as long as I could. Now you must only be patient, and like a good child trust your father."
Something in his manner quieted her. She only sighed and said, "she could not understand it."
"Neither can I—often times, my poor little Maud. There are so many sad things in life that we have to take upon trust, and bear, and be patient with—yet never understand. I suppose we shall some day."
His eyes wandered upward to the wide-arched blue sky, which in its calm beauty makes us fancy that Paradise is there, even though we know that "THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN IS WITHIN US," and that the kingdom of spirits may be around us and about us everywhere.
Maud looked at her father, and crept closer to him—into his arms.