“It is you to whom she is attached. Sometimes it is so with children and parents. One cannot tell why.”
Steinmetz looked as if he could supply information upon the subject: but he remained silent, standing, as it were, in an acquiescent attitude.
“You have fought your fight,” said Paul. “A good fight, too. You have struck your blow for the country. You have sown your seed, but the harvest is not yet. Now it is time to think of your own safety, of the happiness of your own child.”
Stipan Lanovitch turned away and sat heavily down. He leaned his two arms on the table, and his chin upon his clenched hands.
“Why not leave the country now; at all events for a few years?” went on Paul, and when a man who is accustomed to command stoops to persuade, it is strong persuasion that he wields. “You can take Catrina with you. You will be assuring her happiness, which, at all events, is something tangible—a present harvest! I will drive over to Thors now and bring her back. You can leave to-night and go to America.”
Stipan Lanovitch raised his head and looked hard into Paul’s face.
“You wish it?”
“I think,” answered Paul steadily, “that it is for Catrina’s happiness.”
Then Lanovitch rose up and took Paul’s hand in his work-stained grip.
“Go, my son! It will be a great happiness to me. I will wait here,” he said.