"I don't see it that way!" said the hopeless father, shaking his head.
"Would you rather have her—taken away—as her mother suggested?" he hazarded, suddenly.
Tennelly gave him one quick, startled look. "God! No!" he said, and staggered back into a chair. "Do you think she looks so sick as that? I know she's not well. I know she's lost flesh! But she's been neglected. Gila never cared for her and wouldn't be bothered looking after things. She was angry because the baby came at all. She resented motherhood because it put a limitation on her pleasures. My poor little girl!"
Tennelly dropped upon his knees beside the baby and buried his face in its soft little neck.
The baby swept its dark lashes down with the old Gila trick, and looked with a puzzled frown at the dark head so close to her face. Then she put up her little hand and moved it over her father's hair with an awkward attempt at comfort. The great big being with his head in her neck was in trouble, and she was vaguely sympathetic.
A wave of pity swept over Courtland. He dropped upon his knees beside his friend and spoke aloud:
"O Lord God, come near and let my friend feel Thy Presence now in his terrible distress. Somehow speak peace to his soul and help him to know Thee, for Thou art the only One that can help him. Help him to tell Thee all his heart's bitterness now, alone with Thee and his little child, and find relief."
Softly Courtland arose and slipped from the room, leaving them alone with the Presence.
Gila had been gone two months when the day was finally set for Bonnie's wedding.