“Grace, daughter,” he said, “come here for a moment. Harold and I have something to say to you.”
She came immediately, blushing, smiling, a look half of inquiry, half of pleased expectation on her sweet and lovely face.
Her father, still standing by the door, closed it after her, took her hand, drew her into his arms and kissed her tenderly, fondly.
“My child, my own dear child,” he said, “I have given you away, or promised to do so as soon as you can make your preparations and—want me to give up my right in you to another.”
“Oh, no, papa, not that,” she returned, her eyes filling with tears; “am I not your very own daughter? and shall I not always be, as long as we both live?”
“Yes, yes, indeed, my own precious darling, and this is to be your home still for at least a year after—you drop my name for Harold’s.”
“I shall never drop it, father, only add to it,” she returned, with both tears and smiles.
Harold stood close beside them now.
“And you are willing to share mine, dearest, are you not?” he asked, taking her hand in his.