CHAPTER IX
FATHER AND DAUGHTER
For several minutes after Allen had gone, Helen sat, her face in her hands, waiting for the refluence of her strength. Then she walked back to the library, where she found David pacing restlessly to and fro. He saw that she was very white and that she was trembling, and forbearing to question her he led her to a deep easy-chair before the open wood fire. But she saw his suspense and at once told him that Allen would be silent.
Gently, reverently, David laid his hand upon her hair, and of all the things in his heart he could only say, "You saved me."
She drew his hand down and held it against her cheek and gazed up into his eyes. He sat down on the arm of her chair. They had both been through too great a strain to fall into easy converse, and for several minutes each was filled with quivering thoughts. Presently David remembered what he had forgotten since entering the house—his experience at St. John's Hospital. He told her the story, and when he had ended he drew out the packet containing the yellow letters, the photograph and the two notes of five years before.
"Well, they'll make no more trouble," he said, and started toward the fire-place.
She laid a hand upon his arm. "What are you going to do?"
"Burn them."
She shook her head and held out her hand. "No—you must not. Give them to me."
He laid them in her hand. "But why do you want them?"