“My dear,” he said at length, “I am glad to meet you. You are a good and brave girl, I know.” His eyes fell upon the black band upon her arm. “I see you are wearing the badge of heroism. My dear, pardon me, you have the same look—Barry, she has your dear mother's look, not so beautiful—you will forgive me, my dear—but the same look. She thinks of others and she has courage to suffer. My dear, I cannot take your hands in mine,”—he glanced with a pathetic smile at his bandaged arms, but with a swift movement of indescribable grace the girl stooped and kissed him on the forehead.
“Barry,” he said, turning to his son, “that was a fine courtesy. I count it an honour to have known you, Miss Vincent.”
He paused a moment or two, his searching eyes still upon her face.
“You will befriend my boy, after—after—”
“I will try my best, sir,” said the girl, the colour deepening in her cheeks the while. “Good night, sir,” she said. “I shall be near at hand if I am wanted.”
“Barry,” said his father, after the girl had gone, “that is a very charming and a very superior young lady, one you will be glad to know.”
“Yes, dad, I am sure she is,” said Barry, and then he told his father of the events of the previous night.
For some moments after he had finished his father lay with his eyes shut, and quite still, and Barry, thinking he slept, sat watching, his eyes intent upon the face he loved best in all the world.
But his father was not asleep.
“Yes, Barry,” he said, “she is like your dear mother, and now,” he added hurriedly, “I hope you will not think I am taking a liberty—”