“Yes, dear. I have one more trip, a short one. It will be all I can do. To-morrow night I'll be back for good. Take care of yourself, little girl.”
“Yes—oh, yes! But I shall worry about you.”
“No. Never worry. I'll be back.”
That seemed to be all he could say. She, too, was still. The silence lengthened, grew into a conscious thing in his mind anti hers. Finally he took a hesitating backward step.
“I must be off, dear.”
“Dad—wait!” She stood erect, her head drawn back, looking directly at him out of curiously bright eyes. Her abundant hair flowed down about her shoulders... But he thought of her eyes. They were frank, brave, and very young and eager and bright. Somewhere within her slim little frame she had a store of fine young courage; he knew it now, and felt a thrill that was at once hope and pain. He had to fight back tears.... She was going to tell him. Yes, she was plunging wonderfully into it:
“There's one thing, Dad! I'm sorry—I oughtn't to make you think of other things now. But if we could only have a little talk....”
He managed to say:
“Only a day more, dear.”
“Yes. I suppose we should wait... though...” He stepped forward, drew her to him, and in an uprush of exquisite tenderness kissed her forehead; then, with an odd little sound that might almost have been a sob, he rushed off, descended the stairs, and went out the front door.