"Elizabeth—dear!" his voice was very gentle.
"Yes, father?"
But she did not change her position at the window.
"Won't you come down-stairs, dear?" he said.
"I can not—" and then she felt the selfishness of her refusal, and added: "I will be down in a moment, I—I have not quite finished dressing—yet!"
John North had thought always of others. In the moment of his supremest agony, he had spoken not at all of himself; by word or look he had added nothing to the sorrow that was crushing her. This had been genuine courage.
"I must remember it always!" she told herself, as she turned away from the window. "I must not be selfish—he would not understand it—"
Her father was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs, and the glance he bent on her was keen with anxiety. Perfect understanding existed between them no less now than formerly, but the anguish which had left its impress on that white face removed her beyond any attempted expression of sympathy from him.
At the end of the hail the open door gave a wide vista of well-kept lawns. Elizabeth turned swiftly to this doorway. Her father kept his place at her side, and together they passed from the house out into the warm day. Suddenly the girl paused, and her eager gaze was directed toward Mount Hope—toward him.
"Would it be too late to go to him now?" she asked in a feverish whisper.