"I've got something to tell you, father," she began excitedly, drawing a tiny paper book from its envelope. "It's just a little surprise—but I'm so glad I'm able to do it. No, father, you mustn't refuse," she protested as she saw him beginning to speak, his eyes remarking what she held in her hand. "I saved this all myself, father; I began over two years ago—it's nearly three hundred dollars," she declared jubilantly after a fitting pause, "and I was going to get something with it—something special, something wonderful—it doesn't matter now what it was—besides, I wanted you to see how saving I could be. But now I want you to take it all, father," the eager face, so unfamiliar with financial magnitudes, radiant with loving expectation, "and pay those awful creditors. Won't that help, father?—won't it help?" she cried again, not knowing what to make of the expression on her father's face.
David Borland's hands shook as he took the little pass-book. His head was bowed over it and the silence lasted till a hot blur fell upon it, a message from afar.
"Yes," he murmured huskily. "Yes, thank God, it helps; more than any man can tell till he's got a broken heart like mine," he said passionately, the long stifled tide of grief and care bursting forth at last. "It more than helps—it heals," he murmured iow again, holding the pass-book close over his brimming eyes. "Who's that?" he suddenly digressed sharply, the deathlike stillness broken by a knock at the door. "Who's got to go an' come now of all times?" as he released the wondering girl, already moving forward to answer the summons.
"Come in, come in," David heard her cry delightedly a moment later, his own face brightening as he recognized the voice. Instinctively he rose as if to rush across the room and bid welcome to the visitor; yet something seemed to check the impulse as he sank back in his chair, an expression of deepening pain on the tired face. But the resolve formed strong within him again and the voice rang like a trumpet.
"Come in, Mr. Nickle," it cried, echoing Madeline's, "come in, an' welcome. I see by your face you know it all—an' I knew you wouldn't be long o' comin'. Sit down—here, alongside o' me."
A man shall be as a refuge from the storm; so runs the ancient message that has shed its music on multitudes of troubled hearts. And how wonderfully true! How mysterious the shelter that one life affords another, if only that life be strong and true; gifted it need not be, nor cultured, nor nimble with tender words nor skilled in caressing ways—for these are separate powers and sparingly distributed. But let the life be true, simple and sincere and brave, and its very existence is a hiding-place; no word may be spoken, or aim achieved, or device employed, but yet the very being of a strong and earnest man remains the noblest pavilion for the defeated and the sad.
How oftentimes the peace of surrender is deepened by an experience of friendship such as comes only to the vanquished! And friendship's sweetest voice is heard by the despairing heart. Thus it was with David Borland as his friend sat beside him, so grave and tender, his very look betokening that he knew all about the long, bitter conflict, as he obviously knew the disaster that had marked its close. He sat long in comparative silence, only a word at intervals to show that he was following David's story.
"An' I feel worse over that than all the rest," David said at length, "to think you lost by me. But I'll see yet that no man will lose a cent by me, if I'm spared long enough—there's a heap o' work in these old bones yet," he went on bravely, "if only——"
"And what about me, father?—what about me?" Madeline broke in, drawing near with half outstretched hands; "I'm going to work too—there isn't any one in this house as strong as I am," she affirmed, her glowing face and flashing eyes indicating the sincerity of her words.
David Borland almost groaned as he took the extended hands. "Oh, child, they're so soft, they're so soft and tender. And you'll never do a day's work while your old dad can work for you," he said tenderly, gazing into the deep passion of her eyes.