Dan. (anxiously). Did he tell thee of his child?
Dor. Ay, speaking gravely, yet kindly, as of a sorrow still unhealed. And when he told me how he lost the maiden many years ago, and how he has vainly sought her ever since, my heart yearned to him, for the tears glistened in his eyes. Methinks a daughter must needs love such a father, for he is a noble gentleman.
Dan. Nay, thou knowest him not. He did not deal rightly by the girl. He left her to perish—to perish, Dolly—that he might save his own life. He is rightly served. The sins of his youth are visited upon him in his old age. It is just, it is just. I would not have quitted thee, my child, my child!
Dor. In truth, I am very sure of that. I cannot think that there is in this world peril or necessity so dire as to part us twain!
Dan. Thou’lt never leave me, Dolly?
Dor. Never!
Dan. Come what may?
Dor. Come what may! (He kisses her.)
[Exit Dorothy.
Dan. (looking after her). Oh, it’s hard, arter so long; for the heart o’ my body is not so dear to me as yon poor little girl! Oh, Dolly, it canna be right,—it canna be right. Thou’st taken to me as to a father. If thou wast my own flesh and blood thou couldst not be dearer to me, nor I to thee. And now—arter so long.—It canna be right.