"So—Gilbert said;—but I—want him."
"Shall we send for him?"
"Yes."
The father looked out of the window where shortly the moon would again shine down on the river. He stroked the head at his knee.
"Lucy, you—love me?"
"Oh, father, dear daddy, what a question!"
"I—must—tell you—something—should—have told you—long ago—"
It was difficult for the man to speak; more so, it appeared, because he was determined to deliver a message to the girl—something that could not wait, but must be told now. Impatient of his slow speech, he walked to the table and seated himself by it.
"Light," he said; and while Lucy brought the lamp and lighted it he found pencil and paper. She watched him curiously, wondering what was about to happen. Was he writing a message to Chester?
From the other side of the table she watched him write slowly and laboriously until the page was full. Then he paused, looked up at Lucy opposite, reached for another sheet and began again. That sheet was also filled, and the girl's wonder grew. Then he pushed them across the table, saying, "Read;" and while she did so, he turned from her, his head bowed as if awaiting a sentence of punishment.