At last, with a sobbing cry, she flung herself upon his neck, and he clasped her in his arms.
“Not to me, father,” she sobbed, “not to me; I am not your judge.”
“No,” he said softly, as he reverently kissed her brow; “you are not my judge.”
His lips parted to speak again, but he shook his head, while a sad smile came into and brightened his countenance.
“The load is lighter, Claire,” he said softly. “No, you are not my judge. If you were you would not condemn me unheard, and I cannot—dare not speak.”
He led her towards the door, and stood watching her as she passed upstairs and out of sight, turning her face to him once before she closed the door.
“The sweet pure angel and good genius of my home,” he said softly, with bent head, and with a calmer, more restful look in his countenance he went slowly to his own room.
All was soon dark and silent in the house so lately busy with the noise and buzz of many guests. Five minutes had not elapsed when the door was softly pushed open, and a slight little figure entered, and crossed to the window.
The noise made was very slight, as the swinging bar across the shutters was lifted and lowered, one of the shutters folded back, the fastening raised, and the window pushed ajar.
The figure stood in the semi-darkness in the attitude of one listening, and then drew back with a peculiar sigh as of one drawing in breath.