“Indeed I do, papa—and understand it perfectly.”
“That's my girl. Twelve thousand a year—and has money lent out at every rate of interest from six per cent. up.”
“And yet I cannot consider him as interesting on that account, papa.”
“You do, Helen—nonsense, my love—you do, I tell you—it's all make-believe when you speak to the contrary—don't you call the curve on his shoulders the line of beauty? Come—come—you know I only want to make you happy.”
“It is time, papa, that I should withdraw,” she replied, rising.
Reilly rose to open the door.
“Good-night, papa-dear, dear papa,” she added, putting her snowy arms about his neck and kissing him tenderly. “I know,” she added, “that the great object of your life is to make your Cooleen Bawn happy—and in doing so, dear papa—there now is another kiss for you—a little bribe, papa—in doing so, consult her heart as well as your own. Good-night.”
“Good-night, my treasure.”
During this little scene of affectionate tenderness Reilly stood holding the door open, and as she was going out, as if recollecting herself, she turned to him and said, “Pardon me, Mr. Reilly, I fear you must think me ungrateful; I have not yet thanked you for the service—the service indeed so important that no language could find expression for it—which you have rendered to dear papa, and to me. But, Mr. Reilly, I pray you do not think me ungrateful, or insensible, for, indeed, I am neither. Suffer me to feel what I owe you, and do not blame me if I cannot express it.”
“If it were not for the value of the life which it is probable I have saved, and if it were not that your happiness was so deeply involved in it,” replied Reilly, “I would say that you overrate what I have done this evening. But I confess I am myself now forced to see the value of my services, and I thank heaven for having made me the humble instrument of saving your father's life, not only for his own sake, Miss Folliard, but for yours. I now feel a double debt of gratitude to heaven for it.”