The tears which ran down the boy's face were his only reply, while William plainly felt the trembling of the child's body increase. The sight of the boy's suffering was excruciating torture to him. He loosed his hold upon Augustus, taking the baby from him, and carrying it to Clarissa, who looked wonderingly at him for an explanation. He had none to offer.
Augustus had not tried to resist when his father took his charge from him, which was a new thing for him. Placing the babe beside its mother, William returned quickly to Augustus, without kissing them both as was his wont, and lifting the boy out of his chair, bore him in his arms to his own private room. He let the tempest of tears vent itself without comment, contenting himself by holding the boy close to him and stroking his head. When he felt that Augustus was becoming calmed, he said:
"Now, Augustus, will you tell me of your sorrow?"
No answer, but Augustus' arms clung closer about his neck, and his head nestled restlessly from one place to another, but he would not look his father in the face. William waited patiently, knowing the boy's nervous temperament, then spoke again, tenderly and lovingly:
"Can not my boy trust his father's love?—"
He never finished the utterance; the answer was so unexpected, and so poignant of torture, it deprived him, temporarily, of both speech and logical thought.
"Father, will she be ashamed of me when she gets older?"
"Ashamed of her brother? What an odd question! She will be proud of you,—what thought prompted such a question?"
"Father, do you think she will ever walk?"
"Yes, my boy."