"You see, dear," and the strong face grew tender, "I did not mean to disturb you until it became inevitable. I am glad I waited."
Ann, about to speak, was checked by his lifted hand. "Now, dear, all my troubles are over. Mr. Stanton, the new Secretary of War, has signed a contract with our firm for field artillery. It is a fortune. Our bid was low. A year's work—shot, shell—and so on. Congratulate me, Ann."
"My God!" he cried, "what is the matter?"
Ann Penhallow turned quickly, a hand on the table staying herself. "And you—you are to make cannon—you—and I—and with my money!" she laughed hysterical laughter—"to kill my people the North has robbed and driven into war and insulted for years—I—I—" her voice broke—she stood speechless, pale and more pale.
Penhallow was appalled. He ran to catch her as she swayed.
"Don't touch me," she cried. "I feared for—you—the army—but never this—this!" Despite her resistance, he laid her on the lounge.
"Leila," she said, "I want to go upstairs to bed." The face became white; she had fainted.
"Is she dead?" he said hoarsely, looking down at her pale face.
"No—no. Carry her upstairs, uncle." He picked up the slight form and presently laid her on her bed. "Leave her to me, Uncle Jim. I have seen girls in hysterics. Send up a maid—the doctor! No, I will come down when she is undressed. See, her colour is better."
He went downstairs, reluctant to leave her. In the library he sat down and waited. An hour passed by, and at last Leila reappeared. She kissed him with more than her usual tenderness, saying, "She is quiet now. I will lie down on her lounge to-night. Don't worry, Uncle Jim."