"Philip," he said, "I—I wish to heaven chance had sent you to us that year."
Tredennis stopped in his walk, a dark and rigid figure in the shadow.
"Had sent me?" he said, in a strained voice. "Me! What—could I have done?"
"I—I don't know," answered the professor; "but I solemnly believe, my boy, that if you had come, you would have averted an evil."
"Then," said Tredennis, "I wish to God I had!"
"I say it," said the professor, "with all the more certainty, remembering, as I do, one day when she wished for you herself."
"She!" said Tredennis. "Bertha? Bertha?"
"Yes, Bertha herself. It was a few weeks before her marriage, and she had not been exactly herself for a week or more. One evening I came into the parlor and found the room full of the odor of flowers. Amory had been with her and had left her a bouquet of heliotrope. She had some on her knee as she sat on a low seat before the fire. When I seated myself near her, she looked up at me suddenly and said, in a rather unsteady voice, 'Papa, I have been thinking about Philip Tredennis. I have not thought of him for a long time. I should like to see him. I—wish he could come back.' She half laughed at herself as she said it, but her laugh was nervous, and when I said to her, 'Why? Were you great friends? I did not know that,' she tried to laugh again, and answered, 'Yes—no—not exactly. But it seems to me that he was a strong sort of person, and sensible, and—and you might rely on his decisions. It is only a fancy, I suppose—but it just came into my mind that I should like to see him again.' There is no doubt, in my mind, that she felt a need of your obstinate strength, which she did not comprehend wholly herself. I wish you had come—I wish from my soul you had!"
"I might have come if I had known," said Tredennis, in a low tone. "There was nothing—nothing to have stood in my way." And he turned and began his walk again.