"And disappointed too, I suppose," said Scarse, in a low voice.
Something in his tone struck her sensitive ear as unusual. "No, I am glad to see you," she repeated, "but--but--but, you know, father, there was never much love lost between us."
"Ah, Brenda, I fear that too much love has been lost. I wish to speak openly and seriously to you, Brenda"--he looked at her piteously--"but I don't know how to begin."
"Are you not well, father?"
"Yes, yes, I am quite well," he replied, leaning on her shoulder as she led him to the sofa. "But I'm worried, dear, worried. Sit down here."
"Worried--what about?" She sat down, but could not as yet grasp the situation. It was so novel, so unexpected.
"About you--about myself. My dear, I have not been a good father to you."
Brenda stared. Were the heavens going to fall? So astonished was she by this wholly unexpected show of tenderness that she could make no answer. He looked at her anxiously and continued, "I fear I have been so engrossed by my duty to my country that I have forgotten my duty to you, my child. I should not have left you so long at school away from me. No wonder you have so little affection for me. I am not much more than a name to you. But I see now how wrong I have been, Brenda dear, and I want to do my best to make amends to you. You will let me?"
"Father!" she cried, all her warm and generous heart going out to him in his penitence. She threw her arms round his neck. "Don't say any more, dear. I have to ask your forgiveness too, for I have not been all a daughter should be to you."
"Ah, Brenda, it is my fault. I kept you from me. But that shall not be now, dear. I have found my daughter and I will keep her. Kiss me, Brenda."