CHAPTER VI.
THE SEARCH.
“Omission to do what is necessary
Seals a commission to a blank of danger.”—Shakespeare.
There were papers scattered over the table, and one or two had fallen on the floor.
“You see I had begun the task before your father came,” Floy said, with a sad smile; “but before we resume it I have something to say to you,” she added with an effort, growing so pale that Espy caught her in his arms, thinking she was about to faint.
“My poor Floy!” he said, “if it is anything painful, don’t tell it; there is no need.”
“I want you to know it, Espy,” she sighed low and tremulously, “but to keep it secret from all others unless—unless it—circumstances should render it necessary that—”
Her head dropped upon his shoulder, and with a burst of hysterical weeping, “Oh, Espy, Espy!” she cried, “I’m more than orphaned; I’ve lost my identity; I’m not Floy Kemper—not the child of the dear parents I mourn, except—except by adoption!”
He was greatly surprised, but only drew her closer to him, as one made dearer still by her sore distress, her utter loneliness; and as she went on in her low, quivering tones, “I’ve none now but you; I’m all alone in the wide world—not a relative living, so far as I know,” a strange thrill of joy mingled with his sympathetic grief—joy that she was his, his alone to love and cherish to life’s end; that on him only she would lean as her earthly stay and support.