The girl's arm was about his neck. "I knew there wouldn't be any stain," she murmured as her face was bended downward to his own; "not with my father—and it won't stop us being happy, will it?" she added hopefully, looking into the care-worn eyes.
"No, dear, no," responded David—"only there's just one thing troubles me the most. It's about Geordie Nickle. He bought a lot o' the stock; I felt at the time he done it just to help me—an' I didn't ask him—an' I kind o' hoped it'd all come out all right. But it didn't, Madeline—an' Geordie's lost an awful lot. I don't know if he has more left—but I'm hopin' so. There ain't no better man in the world than him. One of the things that's always kept me believin' in God, is—is just Geordie Nickle. Men like him does more to keep faith livin' than all the colleges an' all the professors in the world; he's a beautiful argument for religion, is Geordie Nickle—he kind o' proves God, just the same as one sunbeam proves the sun," David concluded, his eyes still fixed on other credentials in the silent glory that wrapped earth and sky.
It was some time before Madeline spoke again. "Poor old father," she said gently; "what you must have suffered all these long months—more than mother and I ever thought of."
"It's been years, child," the father answered softly; "lots o' times I thought I couldn't stand it no longer—but it came awful easy at the last," he suddenly exclaimed. "It was a kind of a relief when I knew the worst—real funny, how calm I took it. It's a little like some women I seen once at an afternoon five-o'clock at-home," he went on dryly, a droll smile stealing over his face; "they was eatin' them little rough cakes they call macaronies—an' I was watchin' two or three of the nobbiest of 'em. Well, they nibbled an' nibbled so dainty, like a mouse at a hunk o' cheese—an' then, when they thought nobody wasn't lookin', they just stuck the whole thing in an' swallowed it like a bullfrog does a fly, an' then passed their cup as calm as you please for another helpin' o' tea. That's a good deal the way I took my medicine when I got the last dose of it—had a kind of a feelin' of relief. Didn't you never notice how easy an' quiet a stream runs when it's past the waterfall? Shouldn't wonder if this feelin' I've got's somethin' the same as the way some fellows enjoys gettin' a tooth yanked after they've been holdin' hot salt to it every night for a month," and David heaved a reminiscent sigh as the memory of his own sleepless nights drifted before him for a moment.
Very low, much of it inarticulate, some of it altogether silent, was the language with which Madeline sought to comfort the weary and wounded heart, little knowing how successful she was; the father held her closer and closer to him; and the swiftly slipping treasures around them, that must soon be sacrificed, seemed more and more insignificant as the preciousness of love's possessions grew more real and more dear.
"Do you know, Madeline, they tell me I won't be worth nothin' when everythin's sold—an' I only hope there'll be enough for everybody—they tell me I won't be worth nothin'—but I never felt richer than I do this minute," the words coming from lips half hidden among the golden hair. "They can all go to thunder about their assets, so long's I've got this one—Bradstreet's an awful liar about how much a man's worth," he added almost gleefully, holding Madeline's soft hand to his furrowed cheek.
"And I never loved you so much as I do right now," the girl responded, employing his own words, her hand wandering among the gray. "Only I'm so sorry for mother—she was so fond of all the things. Where do you suppose we'll live, father?" she asked him timidly after a pause.
Mr. Borland made no reply for a little, his eyes fixed upon a lane of sunbeams that came dancing through the window.
"I can't exactly say, Madeline," he began slowly. "Only I reckon it'll be a little place, wherever it is—but them's often the kind that has the most room," he went on reflectively; "I'm sure there'll be room for everybody we love, an' every one that loves us. I often think how it was the One that hadn't no place to lay His head that offered everybody else a place to rest in," he mused reverently; "an' I think it ought to be a little that way with folks, no matter how poor they get."
Before his words were ended Madeline had slipped from his arms; looking up, David could just see her disappearing as she hurried up the stairs. Half in sorrow, half in jubilance, he was still holding communion with his thoughts when she returned, the dancing sunbeams falling athwart her face as she resumed the place she had deserted.