Then turning again to Annella, he said, sternly:
“Your father?”
“Is in his grave,” answered the girl.
“Thank heaven for that!” were the words that rose to the lips of the veteran; but a glance at the face of his grand-daughter repressed their utterance.
“When did he die?” he asked.
“On Thursday last,” she answered.
“Why did he not write to me in all these years?”
“Grandfather, if he had been happy and prosperous, he would have written; but he was the reverse of all this, and he would not write.”
“But my blood ran in his child’s veins! and if he was unhappy and unsuccessful, he should have written to me! I am not flint!”
“Grandfather, he was unhappy only in the loss of her whom your unkindness hurried to the grave. And any help from your relenting hand, that came too late for her relief, came much too late for his acceptance! Grandfather, he loved your daughter too truly to enjoy a benefit that she could not share.”