The Pilot put his hand caressingly upon the old man's shoulder as if he had been his father, and said in his clear, sweet voice, “Some day you will go to her.”
Upon this scene poor Gwen gazed with eyes wide open with amazement and a kind of fear. She had never seen her father weep since the awful day that she could never forget, when he had knelt in dumb agony beside the bed on which her mother lay white and still; nor would he heed her till, climbing up, she tried to make her mother waken and hear her cries. Then he had caught her up in his arms, pressing her with tears and great sobs to his heart. To-night she seemed to feel that something was wrong. She went and stood by her father, and, stroking his gray hair kindly, she said:
“What is he saying, daddy? Is he making you cry?” She looked at The Pilot defiantly.
“No, no, child,” said the old man, hastily, “sit here and listen.”
And while the storm raved outside we three sat listening to that ancient story of love ineffable. And, as the words fell like sweet music upon our ears, the old man sat with eyes that looked far away, while the child listened with devouring eagerness.
“Is it a fairy tale, daddy?” she asked, as The Pilot paused. “It isn't true, is it?” and her voice had a pleading note hard for the old man to bear.
“Yes, yes, my child,” said he, brokenly. “God forgive me!”
“Of course it's true,” said The Pilot, quickly. “I'll read it all to you to-morrow. It's a beautiful story!”
“No,” she said, imperiously, “to-night. Read it now! Go on!” she said, stamping her foot, “don't you hear me?”
The Pilot gazed in surprise at her, and then turning to the old man, said: