"We 'll not talk about it much, shall we?" he said. "I want you to believe only as I go on from day to day. I 've some big plans that I thought up on the way home. Some day we 'll talk those over, but not now. Donaldson is downstairs."
He saw the color sweep her face. It suggested to him something that he had not yet suspected. It came to him like a new revelation of sunlight.
He smiled. It was the smile of the father which she had so long missed, the smile that always greeted her when his sad heart was fullest of hope and gladness. It was so he used to smile when at twilight he stood at her side, his long thin arm over her shoulder and talked of Ben with a new hope born of his own victory.
"I was going to tell you," he said tenderly, "I was going to tell you of what a big fine fellow this Donaldson is. But—perhaps you know."
She refused not to meet her brother's eyes.
"Yes, Ben," she said, "I know that."
He took her hand, seating himself on the arm of her chair, the other arm resting affectionately across her shoulders. So the father had sometimes sat.
"Is there more?" he asked softly.
"So," she answered, starting a little, "not as you mean. But tell me about him—tell me all about him, Ben."
He felt her hand throb as he held it.