"I second the wish," said Goddard gently. "Pardon the question, but has he been dead long?"
"Three years now; but time has not lessened my sorrow. We were all in all to each other, notwithstanding I was his greatest disappointment."
"How so?"
"He wanted a son and heir; but I was his only child, the last of a long line of fighting men. Dad was my constant companion as well as my teacher," she sighed involuntarily. "I miss him more and more as the years go on."
Goddard nodded sympathetically. "'Oh, for the touch of a vanished hand, and the sound of a voice that is still,'" he quoted softly. Nancy started, and, as her lips quivered, Goddard added more lightly, "I have a fellow feeling with you, for I am an orphan, too, Miss Nancy; but I cannot say I had so agreeable a guardian as you have."
"Aunt Metoaca has been both mother and father to me. Bless her dear kind heart!" and Nancy glanced with deep affection at the nodding gray head on the opposite seat. "She and Doctor John Boyd are the only friends I have."
"Oh, come, you know you have legions of..."
"Of acquaintances—yes," interpolated Nancy swiftly. "It is my fault. I do not make friends easily, and lately..."
"Yes, and lately?" asked Goddard, as she hesitated.
"I have noticed a change in my acquaintances. Oh, nothing tangible; but there is a coolness in their greeting, and I hear innuendoes."