She paused. Her father turned his head upon the crimson couch pillow, but he could not see her face.
"Yes, my dear?" he said, with a little smile touching his lips. "Well, that sounds natural enough. He knows he is always welcome here. When is he coming?"
"He isn't coming. He can't get away. He has tried three different times, and cancelled it each time. He seems to be very busy, too busy even to write."
"That is not strange; he must be a very busy man. Doubtless he will come when he can make time. I shall be glad to see Mr. Jefferson."
"But—you see—he wants us to come there."
"Us?"
"You and me. Father Davy—you understand, dear; don't make me put it into words!"
Her father's arm came about her and she buried her face in his thin shoulder. "Thank God!" he said fervently, under his breath. "Thank the good God, who knows what we need and gives it to us."
After a minute's silence: "But we can't go, Father Davy."
"Can't we? I could not, of course, but you——"