“She shall not experience a moment’s uneasiness that I can prevent,” replied the youth; and at the moment he meant it.
Berrie could not be entirely deceived. She read in her father’s face a subtle change of line which she related to something Wayland had said. “Did he tell you what was in the telegram? Has he got to go away?” she asked, anxiously.
“Yes, he said it was from his father.”
“What does his father want of him?”
“He’s on his way to California and wants Wayland to go with him; but Wayland says he’s not going.”
A pang shot through Berrie’s heart. “He mustn’t go—he isn’t able to go,” she exclaimed, and her pain, her fear, came out in her sharpened, constricted tone. “I won’t let him go—till he’s well.”
Mrs. McFarlane gently interposed. “He’ll have to go, honey, if his father needs him.”
“Let his father come here.” She rose, and, going to his door, decisively knocked. “May I come in?” she demanded, rather than asked, before her mother could protest. “I must see you.”
Wayland opened the door, and she entered, leaving her parents facing each other in mute helplessness.
Mrs. McFarlane turned toward her husband with a face of despair. “She’s ours no longer, Joe. Our time of bereavement has come.”