Her manner was becoming abstracted. It seemed as if she were addressing herself, warning herself, and fighting down a weakness which was threatening to overwhelm her.
Presently she went on, while the man stood by utterly robbed of the power to comfort her:
"August the fourth," she murmured. "August—that's six weeks from now. Six weeks of—sunshine and—and warmth. When the harvest's ripening, and all the world's just—glad. And he'll be glad, and—and happy, too. Yes, Jeff will be very, very happy because—she's going to make him happy."
Quite suddenly she started up from her chair. A dreadful panic had leaped to her eyes. The delicious, healthy color had been swept from her pretty downy cheeks. The corners of her sweet mouth were drooping, and her hands were held out in a gesture of despairing appeal.
"Daddy, Daddy, he will—he will be happy, won't he?" she cried. "I—I just need him to be happy, more—yes, more than anything in the world. Sure, sure, she'll make him happy? Oh, if she doesn't!"
Still the man looked on, a helpless spectator of the girl's suffering. Nor did it seem that his own was any less. But Nan seemed to realize the weakness in her momentary display. Her hands dropped to her side. There was even a visible effort in the manner in which she strove for self-mastery. Her smooth brow puckered in an intense frown, and, to Bud, it almost seemed that she was literally clenching her teeth to hold back the passionate distress which was seeking to find expression.
After a moment something of full self-possession seemed to return to her. She smiled. But it was a smile that lacked conviction. A smile that almost broke her father's heart.
"Tell me, Daddy," she pleaded. "Do you think—he'd—he'd have me be a—a bridesmaid? Would it sort of help him any?" she hurried on. "You see, I—I want him to be real happy. I want him to feel that we just love him, and that—that—we're just glad for him, and—and nothing in the world else matters—to anybody. I'm so——"
There was a little catch of breath. The words she would have spoken died upon her lips. She reeled. Every vestige of color left her pretty face, and her eyes half closed. Just for one weak instant her hands groped behind her for the chair. Then, the next, Bud was at her side, and one strong arm was supporting her.
"Don't, Nan!" he cried, in his heavy cumbersome way. And the sound of his deep voice alone served to ward off the encroachment of that final weakness which, in spite of all her courage, the girl was at last compelled to yield to.