She was looking up at him with those dark eyes of hers, just as his boy had looked at him when he said good-bye three months ago, and he could not trust himself to speak.
"I suppose you get used to things," she said with a sigh.
The Colonel put his hand on her head. "Poor child," he said in a husky voice, "don't think about me."
"Miles loved you," she answered softly, going up close to him. "I'm his sister. Let me love you, too."
He drew her to him in a tender fatherly manner, that brought instant comfort to her aching, wilful little heart.
"Your father was my friend, Marjorie," he said,—"the staunchest friend man ever had. I have often wondered why we failed to understand each other."
"You don't like girls," said Marjorie, "that's why."
The Colonel smiled grimly.
"I didn't," he said. "Perhaps I have changed my mind."