“But don't you want to look around first?”
“I'll have my Sundays for that.” And Dan saw that there was no use in arguing the point with him. He was bent on having his own way.
The old convict filled his lungs with a deep, free breath. “Yes, I'm going to like it. I always did like a small town, anyhow. Tell me about yourself, Dannie. How do you happen to be here?”
Dan roused himself. “I don't know. It's chance, I suppose. After mother's death—”
“Twenty years ago last March,” breaking in upon him, softly; then, nodding at the starlit heavens, “She's up yonder now, watching us. Nothing's hidden or secret. It's all plain to her.”
“Do you really think that, father?”
“I know it, Dannie.” And his tone was one of settled conviction.
Dan had already discovered that his father was deeply religious. It was a faith the like of which had not descended to his own day and generation.
“Well, I had it rather hard for a while,” going back to his story.
“Yes,” with keen sympathy. “You were nothing but a little boy.”