He was a tall, spare man, with snowy hair and a stoop in his shoulders, which told of many years of hard work. But the refinement in his manner and the gentleness in his face were indicative of good breeding, and a life somewhat different from that which he now led.
Bertha was at his side in a moment, and had him down in a rocking-chair, and was sitting on an arm of it, brushing the thin hair back from his forehead, while she looked anxiously into his face, which wore a more troubled expression than usual, although he evidently tried to hide it.
“What is it, father? Are you very tired?” she asked, at last, and he replied;
“No, daughter, not very; and if I were the sight of you would rest me.”
Catching sight of the corner of an envelope in his vest pocket, with a woman’s quick intuition, she guessed that it had something to do with his sadness.
“You have a letter. Is there anything in it about that hateful mortgage?” she said.
“It is all about the mortgage. There’s a way to get rid of it,” he answered, while his voice trembled, and something in his eyes, as he looked into Bertha’s, made her shiver a little; but she kissed him lovingly, and said very low:
“Yes, father. I know there is a way,” her lips quivering as she said it, and a lump rising in her throat as if she were smothering.
“Will you read the letter?” he asked, and she answered:
“Not now; let us have supper first. I am nearly famished, and long to get at Dor’s rolls and broiled chicken, which I smelled before I left the car at the cross-roads.”