“Yes.”
Her father took her hand, and stood trying to collect his thoughts, which, as the result of the agony from which he had suffered, seemed now to be beyond control.
“Yes,” he said at last, “it was right. You could not accept Mr Leslie now. But your aunt said—”
He looked at her vacantly with his hand to his head.
“What did your aunt say about your being engaged?”
“Pray, pray, do not speak to me about it, dear,” said Louise, piteously. “I cannot bear it. Father, I wish to be with you—to help and comfort, and to find help and comfort in your arms.”
“Yes,” he said, folding her to his breast; “and you are suffering and ill. It is not the first time that our people have been called upon to suffer, my child. But your aunt—”
“Pray, dearest, not now—not now,” whispered Louise, laying her brow against his cheek.
“I will say no more,” he said tenderly. “Yes, to be my help and comfort in all this trouble and distress. You are right, it is no time for thinking of such things as that.”