Captain Rothesay started from his reverie at the sound of the child's voice. The tone, and especially the word, broke the spell. He felt once more that he was the father, not of the blooming little angel that he had pictured, but of this poor deformed girl. However, he was a man in whom a stern sense of right stood in the place of many softer virtues. He had resolved on his duty—he had come to fulfil it—and fulfil it he would. So he took the two little cold hands, and said—
“Papa is glad to see you, my dear.”
There was a silence, during which Elspie placed a chair for Captain Rothesay, and Olive, sliding quietly down from hers, came and stood beside him. He did not offer to take the two baby-hands again, but did not repulse them, when the little girl laid them on his knee, looking inquiringly, first at him, and then at Elspie.
“What does she mean?” said Captain Rothesay.
“Puir bairn! I tauld her, when her father was come hame, he wad tak' her in his arms and kiss her.”
Rothesay looked angrily round, but recollected himself. “Your nurse was right, my dear.” Then pausing for a moment, as though arming himself for a duty—repugnant, indeed, but necessary—he took his daughter on his knee, and kissed her cheek—once, and no more. But she, remembering Elspie's instructions, and prompted by her loving nature, clung about him, and requited the kiss with many another. They melted him visibly. There is nothing sweeter in this world than a child's unasked voluntary kiss!
He began to talk to her—uneasily and awkwardly—but still he did it. “There, that will do, little one! What is your name, my dear?” he said absently.
She answered, “Olive Rothesay.” “Ay—I had forgotten! The name at least, she told me true.” The next moment, he set down the child—softly but as though it were a relief.
“Is papa going?” said Olive, with a troubled look.
“Yes; but he will come back to-morrow. Once a day will do,” he added to himself. Yet, when his little daughter lifted her mouth for another kiss, he could not help giving it.