He rose and walked to and fro before the fireplace. “Ah, well! The years bring me an ever-deepening sadness, an ever-increasing sense of our impotence to diminish, the infinite sorrow of the world.”
Then he looked down at Glory and said: “But I can hardly forgive him that he has thrown away so much for so little. And when I think of you, my child, and of all that might have been, and then of the bad end he has come to——”
“But I don't call it coming to a bad end, sir,” said Glory in a quivering voice.
“No? To be torn and buffeted and trampled down in the streets?”
“What of it? He might have died of old age in his bed and yet come to a worse end than that.”
“True, but still——”
“If that is coming to a bad end I shall have to believe that my father, who was a missionary, came to a bad end too when he was killed by the fevers of Africa. Every martyr comes to a bad end if that is a bad ending. And so does everybody who is brave and true and does good to humanity and is willing to die for it. But it isn't bad. It's glorious! I would rather be the daughter of a man who died like that than be the daughter of an earl, and if I could have been the wife of one who was torn and trampled down, in the streets by the very people——”
But her face, which had been aflame, broke into tears again and her voice failed her. The old man could not speak, and there was silence for a moment. Then she recovered herself and said quietly:
“I came to ask you if you could do something for me.”
“What is it?”