“Yes,” Mr. Leighton replied, and Rex continued:
“I am the man, and that is my business here.”
“Oh!” and Dorcas moved uneasily in her chair, while her father answered, “I thought so.”
Then there was a silence, which Rex finally broke, telling why he wanted that particular farm and what he was willing to give for it, knowing before he finished that he had failed. The farm was not for sale, except under compulsion, which Mr. Leighton hoped might be avoided, explaining matters so minutely that Rex had a tolerably accurate knowledge of the state of affairs and knew why the daughter had gone abroad as his aunt’s companion, in preference to remaining in the employ of Swartz & Co.
“Confound it, if I hadn’t insisted upon aunt’s offering five hundred instead of three hundred, as she proposed doing, Bertha would not have gone, and I might have got the place,” he thought.
Mr. Leighton continued, “I think it would kill me to lose the home where I have lived so long, but if it must be sold, I’d rather you should have it than any one I know, and if worst comes to worst, and anything happens to Bertha, I’ll let you know in time to buy it.”
He looked so white and his voice shook so as he talked that Rex felt his castles and fox-hunts all crumbling together, and, with his usual impulsiveness, began to wonder if Mr. Leighton would accept aid from him in case of an emergency. It was nearly ten o’clock by this time, and Mr. Leighton said, “I suppose this is early for city folks, but in the country we retire early, and I am tired. We always have prayers at night. Bring the books, daughter, and we’ll sing the 267th hymn.”
Dorcas did as she was bidden, and, offering a Hymnal to Rex, opened an old-fashioned piano and began to play and sing, accompanied by her father, whose trembling voice quavered along until he reached the words,—
“Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee
For those in peril on the sea.”