“But where—where? Tell me!”
“That’s my secret. You’ve got to keep your own.”
“Oh! but I must tell father.”
“Your father knows it already. He’s not to be trusted.”
“Father knows, and yet—?”
“Yet, he’d let you marry Ormsby. It’s a way fathers have when they want their daughters to marry rich men. So, you see, he’s not as honest as I am. Now, go home like a good girl, and in a day or two you shall hear from Dick. In the meantime, I tell you this much: The boy is ill and broken. You’ve both been fools. If you had come to me like sensible children, and told me that you wanted to get married, I’d have paid his debts and transferred the burden of responsibility to you—for he is a responsibility, and always will be—mark my words!”
“A responsibility I will gladly undertake, grandfather.” She dropped on her knees beside the bed, and clasped his hand with a frankness and naturalness quite strange and wonderful to him. He raised her fingers to his lips, and kissed them with unusual emotion.
“That’s right, call me grandfather. Good girl—good girl!” He reverted to his usual snappy manner. “Put on your gloves, girl. Get away home. Keep a still tongue in your head. Wait till you hear from me. Give me the letter. Trimmer shall post it.”
“OH, GOOD-BYE—GOOD-BYE, YOU DEAR, DEAR OLD MAN!” SHE CRIED, DROPPING ON HER KNEES BESIDE HIM.—Page 261