“Ralph,” she answered, and dropped her head.
“True—he did it for the best,” repeated Willy, and relapsed into silence.
“Besides, I had no home then, you know.”
How steadfastly the girl's eyes were fixed oh the distant south!
“You had your father's home, Rotha.”
“Ah, no! When it ceased to be poor father's home, how could it be mine any longer? No, I was homeless.”
There was another pause.
“Then let me ask you to make this house your home forever. Can you not do so?”
“I think so—I can scarcely tell—he said it might be best—”
Willy let loose her hand. Had he dreamed? Was it a wild hallucination—the bright gleam of happiness that had penetrated the darkness that lay about him at every step?