She had, indeed, thought it for some time; but, after all, the notion had first occurred to Mr. Merridew himself; and in all the circumstances he was not disposed to suppress the fact another moment.
"My dearest Nan," said he, gently, "it is the very thing I did!"
She looked at him with blank, unseeing eyes.
"What do you mean, papa?"
"I actually offered him that very opening, with every prospect of partnership that single partner could hold out."
"When?" asked Nan after a further pause. Her voice had changed.
"The first time I saw him after the wreck. It was too late. He had heard of the diggings, and he would hear of nothing else."
"Why did you never tell me before?"
"My dear child, need you ask? I thought it would hurt you," said Mr. Merridew; and the tender compassion in his voice was not unmingled with remorse, for Nan had turned very pale, and her lip quivered.
"It does," she said, simply. "No doubt that was why he did not tell me either," she added, and the quivering lip curled. In a minute she crossed over to her father's chair and kissed him without emotion. "I am afraid I have been very rude, besides misjudging you so strangely. But—but don't let us misjudge anybody else until we must—or speak of him again until we hear."