“She is,” said Rhoda.
The farmer was looking on Robert.
Robert said it likewise in a murmur, but with steadfast look.
Bending his eyes now upon Dahlia, a mist of affection grew in them. He threw up his head, and with a choking, infantine cry, uttered, “Come.”
Robert placed her against her father's bosom.
He moved to the window beside Rhoda, and whispered, and she answered, and they knew not what they said. The joint moans of father and daughter—the unutterable communion of such a meeting—filled their ears. Grief held aloof as much as joy. Neither joy nor grief were in those two hearts of parent and child; but the senseless contentment of hard, of infinite hard human craving.
The old man released her, and Rhoda undid her hands from him, and led the pale Sacrifice to another room.
“Where's...?” Mr. Fleming asked.
Robert understood him.
“Her husband will not come.”