He turned, drew on his coat, then gave his daughter his arm. He seemed to have shaken off a weight of years with his hard work. His step was elastic, his head was thrown back.
"I cannot say that I am sorry any more when I see your joy, dear father. Yet, like the men, I wonder too. But I will not ask you why you are glad to have lost your treasure, or I may get answered as Bickford was."
"The rascal had an impudent tone in his voice, though I'll swear he meant no offence. But for you, indeed, do not ask, my little maid. 'Tis enough that what looks evil news is not so. This day, as the wrecked sailor, who, from his perilous spar floating on ocean, sees suddenly a great ship at hand, and finds salvation even in the grave of his hopes, even so am I. I—I have been through dark waters—I have suffered to the very last hiding-places of the heart. My life turned upon me and rent me. My wrath roused up such a devil as I knew not man could harbour. God hid His face and I was lost in the darkness. But now—now my cup is full. He has spared me; He has lifted my load. I must commune with Him. I cannot talk to mankind until I have praised the name of the Lord. With David I could dance before Him, because He has made my heart whole again and lifted my head in my own sight."
"Then will I bless God too, dear father. Indeed, your face says more to me than your words. You are grown young. There is even laughter in your eyes again."
He held her hand and pressed it.
"Money's not everything—how well I know that," she said. "'Tis nothing—less than nothing—glorified mould—scum—a dirty mantle on the deep water of life—the poisonous berries we children clutch at. I hate it. I scorn it. The gilded moss in that hole there—the moss that will grow black and die in the glare of day—that is money. Let in light and we see it as it is."
"You never cared for money."
"And now less than before. A man might live in that den we've just torn down, and live happy, too, if he'd escaped from such dreams as have of late tormented me. This hour, with my own hands, would I build up a hut of stone and shaggy heath and dwell therein for ever rather than go back to yesterday. But yesterday is past, and to-morrow I shall make holiday and hold a revel that all must share if they still want my friendship."
"You are your dear self again!"
"What is myself? What am I? I have been a storm-cloud drifting over men's heads to burst in unseasonable hail. Now will I be a sun to shine upon men's hearts and warm 'em. Oh, I have learnt wisdom in a dreadful book; but leave that. Talk about her—the old woman—so tough and so terrible in her ways. She's far enough off now—in France, I'll wager."