As he looked away at the golden moon, a line of poetry came to him.
“God’s in His Heaven,
All’s right with the world.”
“I wonder?” he thought. Then, “How absurd! Of course it’s true. Somehow there must still be a way.”
His first visible justification of this faith came to him the moment he stepped inside the dock office. There, snugly sleeping on a couch in the corner, was a slender, dark-skinned child whose black eyelashes were long and lovely. And there, pacing the floor before her, was her father, the great plantation owner.
“Don del Valle!” the boy exclaimed. He could scarcely believe his eyes.
“Yes, Senor Johnny Thompson.” The man’s tone seemed austere.
“I—I am truly sorry that your crop has been ruined,” said the boy.
“And I, sir, am disappointed in you, disappointed that you should have taken advantage of my endeavor to deal generously with you.”
“How—how—I—” the boy stammered.