When morning came, with light and love in her face, she went below, and those who met her knew not the conflict of the night,—the great darkness,—so brilliant was her morning.
“I am going to the city, to-day, to make some purchases: my wardrobe needs replenishing.”
“Which announcement, I suppose, is an appeal to my purse,” remarked Mr. Wyman.
“I should put her on a shorter allowance, if I were you,” said his wife, “if she does not give us more of her company.”
“Are you aware that you have been roaming most of the time, Dawn, since the change in our home?” said her father, as he presented her the means for her purchases.
“Of course, having some one to take my place as housekeeper, I wish to enjoy my freedom a little.”
Mrs. Wyman looked troubled. Had she separated them? Was Dawn absenting herself on her account? A look of pain passed over her face, which she little knew the subject of her thoughts caught and interpreted.
“I am not going because you are here,” said Dawn at parting; “I am going because I feel impelled to. I am truly grateful to you, that your love came to bless my father's life. Do you believe me?”
“I do; and thank you from my heart for your words.” This was said with a depth of feeling that is always accompanied by the holy baptism of tears, and this was no exceptional occasion.
The first thought that came to Dawn, on her arrival in the city, was the dream of her childhood,—the pure white robe, and the damp, dark lanes.