“Not to-night, father.”
In the dimness he groped for a chair; he took her on his knee, her arms clung fast.
“Is it well with you, Edith?”
Then, in the clinging dusk she dared the truth at last; to ears that did not hear. For his thought was with the dead man. She knew it well; yet once to tell her story—only once! Her voice rang steady, prouder than any pride: “I have loved Greatheart. It is well with me.”
“Poor little girl,” he said. “Poor little girl!” The proud head sought his breast and now her tears fell fast.
And far away, Charlie See rode south through the wizard twilight. There was no singing now. For at the world’s edge some must fare alone; through all their dreams one unforgotten face—laughing, and dear, and lost.