My father looked round as I came in, but Hildred's face was turned away from me, and she did not see me. She gave a great start and stood up hurriedly when I touched her shoulder.
'Did I frighten you?' I said; 'you ought to have gone home, Hildred, before it came on to rain like this.'
'Does it rain?' she asked, without looking up.
The wind answered her, as it dashed the rain in a noisy gust against the window.
'You will get wet,' I said, watching her putting on her cloak and hood.
'I don't mind. I only waited because your father was alone, and I didn't like to leave him. I must go home now.'
'Thank you, my dear,' my father said. 'I wish you had not got to go home, but that you could stay here with us always.'
It was my father's way to say things like that to Hildred. They were hard to bear—hard to be reminded of what might have been—hard to listen to, and to say nothing.
I must let her go out now into the rainy darkness. I could never keep her—never—safe sheltered in the warmest corner of our fireside.
As my father spoke, Hildred bent down, still hurriedly, to bid him good night. He kept her hand, and said, 'Hildred, lass, will you come home here, and stay for always? Will you be my daughter?'