"No, no—my son. It is very strange—all things just now seem so strange. Maud, my child,"—and John roused himself out of a long silence into which he was falling,—"go, and take Louise to her mother."
The girl rose, eager to get away. As she crossed the room—the little creature clinging round her neck, and she clasping it close, in the sweet motherliness of character which had come to her so early—I thought—I hoped—
"Maud!" said John, catching her hand as she passed him by—"Maud is not afraid of her father?"
"No,"—in troubled uncertainty—then with a passionate decision, as if ashamed of herself—
"No!"
She leaned over his chair-back and kissed him—then went out.
"Now—Guy."
Guy told, in his own frank way, all the history of himself and William Ravenel; how the latter had come to America, determined to throw his lot for good or ill, to sink or swim, with Maud's brother—chiefly, as Guy had slowly discovered, because he was Maud's brother. At last—in the open boat, on the Atlantic, with death the great revealer of all things staring them in the face—the whole secret came out. It made them better than friends—brothers.
This was Guy's story, told with a certain spice of determination too, as if—let his father's will be what it might, his own, which had now also settled into the strong "family" will, was resolute on his friend's behalf. Yet when he saw how grave, nay sad, the father sat, he became humble again, and ended his tale even as he had begun, with the entreaty—"Father, if you only knew—"
"My knowing and my judging seem to have been of little value, my son. Be it so. There is One wiser than I—One in whose hands are the issues of all things."