He held her close, but for a moment did not speak.
“It isn’t a—a very happy celebration—I’ve prepared for you.”
She could only cry convulsively, “Poor father!”
“You never dreamt,” he quavered, “your old father—could do a thing like this—did you?”
She did not answer. She trembled a moment longer on his shoulder; then, slowly and with fear, she lifted her head and gazed into his face. The face was worn—she thrilled with pain to see how sadly worn it was!—but though tear-wet and working with emotion, it met her look with steadiness. It was the same simple, kindly, open face that she had known since childhood.
There was a sudden wild leaping within her. She clutched his shoulders, and her voice rang out in joyous conviction:
“Father—you are not guilty!”
“You believe in me, then?”
“You are not guilty!” she cried with mounting joy.