“For what?” asked the father hoarsely, as his unwelcome companion paused.
“To speak of one I loved more than ever I loved mine own sisters.” And the round firm voice grew very sweetly tender and tremulous, for it spoke no more than the truth.
“I cannot talk of her—I know you loved her, and she you—but”—
Again there was silence, for the great heart bled inwardly and made no sign. At last the girl ventured again:—
“Oh, forgive me, sir, if I seem to fail of respect to your wish, or of tenderness to your exceeding sorrow, but there’s something she fain would have you know. God forgive me if I profanely touch his mysteries, but it seems to me that she who has gone straight to his presence has been sent to bring to mind words she spoke and I never yet have dared repeat. Will you say nay to her wish, dear and honored friend?”
“Words she said?” echoed the father, and, uncovering his face, he turned and fixed upon Betty such stern demanding eyes, that even her high courage almost quailed; but though her lips turned pale, she steadfastly replied,—
“Yes, words she said in the night before she went. Only I heard them.”
“And God,” suggested the captain as severely as if he were administering an oath.
“And God who hears me now,” replied Betty, her eyes meeting his so bravely and so truthfully that his own softened as he said,—