"I know you cannot say much about it," she urged, "but shall I tell your father that I know all, and reason with him? He may be too excited to act wisely. Let me speak to him."
"No! no!" he exclaimed, "there is but one course before us; my mother pointed it out clearly, but I hope I should have taken it of myself. Martin must come home with us to England, and we must do what we can to reclaim him, and fit him in some degree for the future. You must help us, Phyllis—you and Dorothy."
"You had better go and tell Dorothy of her fine task, then," said Phyllis peevishly.
Philip was not long in finding Dorothy, who had sauntered away, following the little tracks that crossed the open fields, to gather the wild flowers which were blooming in profusion. She saw him coming toward her, and retraced her steps to meet him. She had hardly spoken to him before, so eager had she been to carry the good news of his arrival to his father. Her face was lighted up with a very pleasant smile.
"How glad I am you are come back!" she exclaimed. "Your father has been so wretched and low-spirited. O Philip! is it true that Andrew Goldsmith's daughter is found at last? How did she come here? and is she dead? and what had Mr. Martin to do with it? If I might only know the truth I should be so thankful."
"I will tell you, Dorothy," he said. "My father married Sophy Goldsmith when he was a young man about as old as myself. Secretly, for fear of his uncle; and they came here, as we did, out of Italy, thirty years ago. They quarreled, and he left her, expecting her to follow him; but she died, leaving a child behind her, and he never knew it."
"He did not know that she was dead!" exclaimed Dorothy.
"He let things drift," answered Philip with an unconscious accent of scorn, "because he was afraid of his uncle discarding him. He made no inquiries after her till he wanted to marry my mother; and then his messenger sent him word that Sophy Goldsmith was dead, but said nothing about the birth of their son. And my father was satisfied! But the child grew up here among these peasants. He was the man you saw at the festa who was like Andrew Goldsmith."
Dorothy walked on beside him in silence, and, somewhat surprised by it, Philip looked down into her half averted face, and saw the tears streaming down her cheeks.
"Oh, poor Andrew!" she sobbed at last; "poor old man! And poor Sophy! How he has mourned for her! and how he has almost worshiped Mr. Martin! How will Andrew bear it, Philip? How can your father bear it?"