"He will do what is best for us, daughter," returned the captain in moved tones; "and if we must part in this world, we may hope to meet in that better land where death and partings are unknown."
"Yes, papa, the thought of that must be the greatest comfort when death robs us of our dear ones."
He took her hand, led her to a sofa, and, seating her by his side, put his arm about her, drawing her close to him. "I have something to say to you, daughter," he said in low, tender tones.
She gave him a rather startled, inquiring look, asking, "About what, papa?"
"You remember the bit of news—in regard to the escape of a convict—which hastened our departure for the North some months ago?"
"Yes, sir; and has he not been caught and returned to his prison?"
"No; and I have reason to think he is somewhere in this neighborhood, probably bent on evil deeds, perhaps among them some harm to my daughter, whose testimony helped to send him to prison for the burglary committed here. I tell you this, my child, as a warning to you to be very careful how you expose yourself to possible danger from him."
"Yes, papa, I will; but you know I never go outside the grounds without a protector, because you long ago forbade my doing so."
"Yes; but now you must not go everywhere even inside of them; avoid the wood, and keep near the house unless I am with you."
"Yes, sir; I will obey. But, father, he may come into the house in the night. You know he did before."