"Come in," cried Dad, as I pushed the door open. "Glad to see you, Helen. I hope the poor chap's better. I just had Stefansson up here, and he says that old Sammy tried his best to drown them all and smash the yacht to kindling. But he admitted that the way the old fellow slapped her through was a marvel. But next year he's going back to racing boats; says he's had enough of cruising."
He looked at me, as I sank wearily in a chair, too tired to answer.
"What's the matter, daughter?" he asked. "You are not ill, are you?"
He rose and came towards me, his dear loving face full of concern, and I jumped up too and kissed him.
"That's my own dear little girl," he said, much comforted. "And—and Helen dear, I don't suppose you will want to sail to-morrow, will you, or in a day or two?"
There was something very pleading in his voice, it seemed to me.
"Perhaps in a day or two it won't—it won't matter much what I shall do,
Daddy dear," I answered.
He took me and pressed me to his breast and I felt as if many years were passing away, and I was again the desolate little girl who used to come to him with her woes, when a kitten died or a doll was broken. He sat again in his armchair, and I rested on the arm.
"Let us talk as in the old days, girlie," he said. "Let us be the loving friends we've been all these years. I want to see you happy. Your happiness is the only thing in the world that really concerns me now. To obtain it for you I would spend my last cent and give the last drop of my blood. You believe me, don't you?"
"Indeed I do, Daddy dear," I answered. "I don't deserve such kindness.
I'm afraid I am a very selfish girl."