During the recovery of Monsieur Wash, though but little was said upon the subject, it is my opinion that the minds of each of our number pointed only toward one course in the future.
In Mademoiselle's demeanor there appeared a certain air of new courage and determination, though she was still pallid and anxious. It was as if she had passed a climax and had gained strength. Monsieur, the father, was alternately nervous and dejected, or in feverishly high spirits. Occasionally he sat for some time without speaking, merely gazing into the fire with a hand upon each knee; and it was one evening, after a more than usually prolonged silence of this description, that he finally took upon himself the burden which lay upon us unitedly.
“Esmeraldy,” he remarked, tremulously, and with manifest trepidation,—“Esmeraldy, I've been thinkin'—it's time—we broke it to mother.”
The girl lost color, but she lifted her head steadily.
“Yes, father,” she answered, “it's time.”
“Yes,” he echoed, rubbing his knees slowly, “it's time; an', Esmeraldy, it's a thing to—to sorter set a man back.”
“Yes, father,” she answered again.
“Yes,” as before, though his voice broke somewhat; “an' I dessay you know how it'll be, Esmeraldy,—that you'll have to choose betwixt mother and Wash.”
She sat by her lover, and for answer she dropped her face upon his hand with a sob.
“An'—an' you've chose Wash, Esmeraldy?”