“Father!” she cried, with a sudden note of pain. “Father! Father!”
Somebody moved inside, and soon the heavy shutters, falling back, revealed the Dominé’s mildly astonished face against the large French window.
Ursula brushed past him and threw herself into the faded old leather chair. She looked up into his questioning eyes for one long moment; then, as the home-feel of it all came over her—the room, the books, the loving countenance—she dropped forward on her hands and broke into convulsive weeping.
“Don’t be frightened,” she stammered between her sobs. “Nothing has happened. It’s only—only—” She wept on silently. Presently she dried her eyes. “It’s only—nothing,” she said, smiling. “I am stupid. I have come to you for courage, Captain, as when I was a little girl.”
The Dominé laid his single hand upon his daughter’s head, and under his gaze she found it very difficult to keep to her brave resolve.
“No, no, you must scold me,” she said. “That is not the way.”
“You do the scolding yourself, child. It is only fair that one of us should attempt the comforting. Have you hurt your forehead?”
“Yes,” replied Ursula, quickly. “It is not much, but it has upset me. It has upset me, you see.”
“Ursula, Ursula, when a woman like you finds cause for tears, a bodily pain comes almost like a diversion. Dear child, I know your path is far from smooth. Sometimes I wonder whether we did right. It seems to me as if, with you, it would have been ‘No crown, no cross.’”