The last bit of paper fluttered on the air; she gave a long look towards the dear old Homestead; she could see the spires of the two churches at Mayfield, the brass rooster on the school-house where Felix had taught, and then she turned homeward to write the letter that would release him from the covenant whose keeping had been made impossible to them. As she turned, the noise of wheels was before her, the dust of travel in her face; she lifted her eyes in time to return a bow from Ralph Towne and to feel the smile that lighted the face of the white-haired lady at his side.
In the dusk she came down-stairs, dressed for a walk, with several letters in her hand.
“Whither does fancy lead you, daughter?” her father asked as she was passing through the sitting-room. He was lying upon the lounge with a heavy shawl thrown over him; his voice came quick and sharp as though he were in pain.
She moved towards him instantly. “Why, father, are you sick?”
“No, dear, not—now,” catching his breath. “I have been in pain and it has worn upon me. Greyson gave me something to carry with me some time ago, I have taken it three times to-day and now I shall go to sleep?”
“Are you sure you feel better?” she asked caressing the hand that he held out to her. “Let me stay and do something for you.”
“No. I must go to sleep. Run along. I have sent your mother away, and now I send you away.”
She lingered a moment, stooping to kiss the bald forehead and then the plump hand.
Her father was very happy to-night, for her mother, of her own accord, for the first time in fifteen years, had kissed him.
He held Tessa’s hand thinking that he would tell her, then he decided that the thought of those fifteen years would hurt her too sorely.