"He is," returned Glynn, solemnly gathering her again to his heart. "He is at peace, and I must be husband and father both to you, my darling."
"Oh, no, no! not dead!" she cried piteously. "I may see him once more. He will speak to me again. Take me to him, dear Hugh!" Breaking away from him: "Let us go at once."
"It would be of no avail, dearest!—you could not even recognize him!"
"How! why! Why did you not send for me when he was ill?"
"But he was not ill, darling! He was killed on the railway; he must have leant against the door of the carriage, and it probably flew open. He fell, and it is supposed was instantaneously killed."
"Shall I never, never see him again? It is too cruel!" She wrung her hands and looked despairingly round her; then with a sharp cry threw herself into his arms, and an agony of tears came to her relief.
With infinite care and tenderness Glynn soothed the poignancy of her first grief, and soon persuaded her she could show no better respect for the dear dead than by fulfilling engagements to which he had agreed. Some months later, therefore, a very quiet wedding took place at Lady Gethin's residence. Glynn's clerical cousin from Clapham and the faithful Mrs. Kellett were the only guests, and gradually time and tranquillity healed the wound which death had inflicted.
But Lambert lived ever tenderly cherished in his daughter's memory, and Glynn found that the best comfort he could give his young wife was by describing the cheerfulness and returning sense of enjoyment displayed by her father during the time he spent with his intended son-in-law. The mortal agony that darkened his last hours she never knew. Even when in the course of time she was obliged to believe she was not his daughter, her sense of loving gratitude was only deepened and exalted.