When it was over he lit a cigar, and the fine odor filled the old room.
Then very quietly he told her the story of Mammy Maria's return, of the little home she had prepared for them; of her coming that day to the mill and taking Lily, and that even now, doubtless, she was there looking for the elder sister.
She did not show any surprise—only tears came slowly: “Do you know that I felt that something of this kind would happen? Dear Mammy—dear, dear Mammy Maria! She will care for Lily and father.”
She could stand it no longer. She burst into childish tears and, kneeling, she put her beautiful head on Travis's lap as innocently as if it were her old nurse's, and she, a child, seeking consolation.
He stroked her hair, her cheek, gently. He felt his lids grow moist and a tenderness he never had known came over him.
“I have told you this for a purpose,” he whispered in her ear—“I will take you to them, now.”
She raised her wet eyes—flushed. He watched her closely to see signs of any battle there. And then his heart gave a great leap and surged madly as she said calmly: “No—no—it is too late—too late—now. I—could—never explain. I will go with you, Richard Travis, to the end of the world.”
He sat very still and looked at her kneeling there as a child would, both hands clasped around his knee, and looking into his eyes with hers, gray-brown and gloriously bright. They were calm—so calm, and determined and innocent. They thrilled him with their trust and the royal beauty of her faith. There came to him an upliftedness that shook him.
“To the end of the world,” he said—“ah, you have said so much—so much more than I could ever deserve.”
“I have stood it all as long as I could. My father's drunkenness, I could stand that, and Mammy's forsaking us, as I thought—that, too. When the glory of work, of earning my own living opened itself to me,—Oh, I grasped it and was happy to think that I could support them! That's why your temptation—why—I—”