Gertrude did not answer. Instead she raised her head and looked at him. It was a long look and a steady one, and the captain found it hard to bear. He fidgeted for a moment and then blurted out:
“Well, what is it? Why are you starin' at me like that?”
The stare continued.
“What is it?” demanded Daniel. “What does ail you, Gertie? Or is it me?”
His daughter nodded. “Yes,” she said, “it is you. Why don't you tell me all about it, Daddy? I have a right to know. Why don't you tell me?”
“Tell you? Tell you what?”
“You know. Why don't you tell me? You have told me so much already that you may as well make a clean breast of it. Why, you silly old Dad, what do you suppose brought me here a week ahead of my vacation? Why do you think I came?”
“Why do I think—? Why—why, you came because you wanted to see your mother and me, I suppose. That's reason enough—or I flattered myself that 'twas. I thought you was as anxious to see us as we was to see you.”
“So I was; but that wasn't reason sufficient to make me leave my work at college before the term was over, leave it for good, very likely. I came because I was sure you needed me. And your letters made me sure.”
Daniel gasped. His letters had been triumphs of diplomatic evasion, so he considered. He had been so careful to write nothing of his troubles, to leave out everything which should hint at his disturbed state of mind. He had taken pains to express, in each epistle, his contentment and happiness, had emphasized them. And now—