It was my father’s, and he was tenderly stroking my hair.
Tiburtsi took my hands, and set me upon his knees right in my father’s presence.
“Come and see us,” he said. “Your father will let you come and say good-bye to my little girl. She—she is dead.”
Tiburtsi’s voice trembled, and he winked his eyes queerly, but he at once rose quickly to his feet, set me down on the floor, pulled himself together, and left the room.
I raised my eyes inquiringly to my father’s face. Another man was standing before me now, and there was something lovable about him which I had sought in vain before. He was looking at me with his usual pensive gaze, but there was a shade of surprise in his eyes, and what might have been a question. The storm which had just passed over our heads seemed to have dispelled the heavy mist that had lain on my father’s soul and frozen the gentle, kind expression on his face. He now seemed to recognise in me the familiar features of his own son.
I took his hand trustfully, and said:
“I didn’t steal it. Sonia lent it to me herself.”
“Yes,” he answered thoughtfully. “I know; I am guilty before you, boy, but you will try to forget it sometime, won’t you?”
I seized his hand and kissed it. I knew that he would never again look at me with the dreadful eyes which I had seen only a few moments before, and my long pent-up love burst forth in a torrent. I did not fear him now.
“Will you let me go to the hill?” I suddenly asked, remembering Tiburtsi’s invitation.