"Teola, darling! My darling, why will you persist in being out at night?... See, now, how you are coughing.... Child, what would become of me, if anything should happen to you?"
Teola knew the heart of her father. He had sternly preached orthodox doctrine, had persecuted the squatters according to his beliefs; but he loved his children, and especially had he idolized her. The thought of the babe in the fisherman's hut sped through her mind, her father's consternation and horror if she should be compelled to tell her secret. But Tessibel stood in her place as mother to the little boy, and had taken an oath that nothing could force her to break. The squatter had been the scapegoat upon which had been heaped the sins of a girl no one had thought capable of doing wrong. Teola, resting in her father's arms, struggled with her conscience, trying to press down the moral weakness that had compelled her to keep the tragedy in the cabin quiet. The minister helped her to her chamber, and, after she had retired, went in and prayed with and for her. His voice, low and tender, with the exquisite tones of an orator, was strangely moved.
"Child," he groaned, "I would give much to see you in good health again."
"I shall never be better, dearest; never. I know now that I cannot—that I sha'n't—"
His hand covered her lips.
"If you want to break my heart, Teola," he cried, unnerved, "then say what you were going to. I can't, and won't, bear it! You are not yet eighteen. You've always been well until these past few weeks.... Oh, I wish your mother and I had never gone abroad—or that you had gone with us.... But you begged so hard to stay at home!"
Teola had coveted the chance to tell him of the little human link between Dan Jordan's life and hers. She raised herself on her pillow, the long hair mantling her shoulders and aureoling the death-like face.
"Father," she gasped. "Father! Let me tell you something about Tessibel Skinner. No! Don't put your fingers over my lips! Don't! Don't! Listen."
"Teola," interjected Graves gravely, "if you want to displease me—"
"She's so lonely," broke in the girl, her courage ebbing away under the bent brows of her father. "I thought—you—might help her."