He was struck by the vehemence of her appeal. He allowed himself to listen for a moment—to overbalance all his preconceived plans, but just then his past life, Jordan Morse, his own near approaching end, sank into his mind, and the fire in his eyes went out. There was finality in the shake of his shoulders.
“No, no,” he murmured, sinking back. “It’s too late for me. I couldn’t earn money enough to feed a pup. I’m all to pieces—no more good to any one. No, you’ll have to go alone.”
“I’m sorry.” The girl caught her breath in disappointment. She was crying softly and made no effort to wipe away her tears.
The silent restraint was broken only by the ticking of the shadowy clock on the mantel and Virginia’s broken sobs. She stifled them back as her father spoke comfortingly. 26
“Well, well, there, don’t cry! If your mother’d lived, we’d all ’ve been better.”
“I wish she had,” gasped the girl, making a dash at her eyes. “I wish she’d stayed so I’d ’ve had her to love. Perhaps I’d ’ve had you, too, then.”
“There’s no telling,” answered Singleton, drawing up to his desk and beginning to write.
Virginia watched the pen move over the white page for a space, her mind filled with mixed emotions. Then she turned her eyes from her father to the grate as a whirl of ashes and smoke came out.
Matty’s story came back to her mind, and she glanced toward the window, but back to the fire quickly. The blizzard seemed to rage in sympathy with her own riotous thoughts. As another gust of wind rattled the casements and shook down showers of soot from the chimney, Virginia turned back to the writer.
“It’s the ghosts of my mother’s folks that make that noise,” she confided gently.