Schuyler, a huddled heap by the desk, straightened, weakly.
"You!" he cried, brokenly. Tears welled to his eyes. He seized—the little form in his arms, clutching it to him.
Blake turned to Kathryn.
"You should not have come," he said. He was sorry for the hurt he knew she suffered.
"My place is here." She went to Schuyler, stooping over him.
"Jack, dear." She spoke, very quietly.
He lifted his eyes, dim, moist. His lips worked.
"Oh, daddy!" exclaimed the child. "You've been ill! You look awful!" He bent his head.
"Yes, little sweetheart," he answered, in shaking tone, "very ill. God grant you may never know how ill."
"But you're most well, now, aren't you daddy?" she asked, brightly.