"That is very considerate of you, papa," replied Dorothy, who had been greatly exercised in view of the matter herself, after becoming convinced that the breach of fifteen years ago could never be bridged.
She had already talked it over with her husband, and they had both agreed that, for her mother's sake, it would be better that the relationship between herself and the talented artist remain a secret among themselves. Still, it was not an easy task for her, as she sat beside him, looking into his yearning eyes and listening to his faltering tones, to assent to his self-sacrificing proposition to relinquish his claim upon her, also.
John's heart sank at her words. He had not quite given up all hope until that moment; but Dorothy's noncommittal reply had seemed to confirm his worst fears, that there was absolutely no hope of a reunion with Helen.
"Then, for her sake, we will agree to——" he began, in a hopeless voice.
"For your own sake, papa, as well as for hers," interposed Dorothy, laying a gentle hand upon his arm, and almost weeping as she read the misery in his face. "We must not ignore the fact that it would not leave you unscathed in the midst of your honors; and, I imagine, there might arise other complications for us all."
He captured her hand and stroked it tenderly with both of his own.
"The problem might so easily have been solved if—if I could have won her anew; then we could all have come together again naturally, and no one would have been any the wiser regarding the past," he said. "Oh, Dorrie! do you think I could, even now? Is there no hope?"
His voice was hoarse from an agony of yearning as he concluded.
She could not answer him for a moment. At length she lifted her tear-laden eyes to him.
"Papa," she breathed, almost inaudibly, "I—know there is—a grave in mamma's heart."