She followed him to his room, and when he fell into a chair, she crouched on her knees beside him.
“My child, I have been humbled through you,” he began, musingly, while his fingers gently stroked her hair. “Your instinct against my reason! And instinct conquers, reason is beaten, and grievously rebuked. I meant it for the best, my Inarime. But now I yield to your wishes. It would have been well for me to have taken counsel with them from the first. But this is ground upon which, perhaps, the old may always learn from the young without disgrace.”
His speech faltered and died away in supreme weariness. Inarime held her breath. Could this mean the recall of Gustav? And yet the hope seemed so wild that she dared not give it a transient shelter lest the reaction should utterly overwhelm her.
“To-morrow, father dear,” she urged, kissing his hand. “You are so tired now.”
“I have not much to say, and I hasten to have it over that I may not be obliged to revive the painful subject. I will not seek again to oppose your natural desire to remain unwedded, since you cannot hope to wed where your heart is.”
Tears of disappointment sprang to her eyes. She moved away from him in silence, and then glancing over her shoulder, saw the droop of illness in his frame, and his arms hanging languidly beside him. She was smitten with remorse, and went back to him.
“Thank you, father,” she said, softly.
“Kiss me, my girl, and leave me,” he just breathed.
She stooped over him and kissed him tenderly. All her reverent love returned on a swell, and it seemed a small thing to give up her lover to stay with her father always. The untroubled harmony of their relations dwelt with her again.