“Then you—you—must be—the ‘Springfield friend’ with whom she went abroad. That is—I mean—was supposed to go abroad.”
It was Madelaine’s turn to be startled.
“You know—about Bernice?”
“Her father, Caleb Gridley, is one of the best friends I’ve ever had. If it hadn’t been for old Caleb—God bless him!—I’m afraid I wouldn’t have done much with my rhymes—or anything. He’s been the only real father I’ve ever known.”
“But how did you know—about Bernice?”
“Her father told me one night. I forget what started it. He was feeling pretty blue over it, although he wouldn’t say much. Bernie and I were rather good friends—once.”
“What do you mean about Mr. Gridley being the only real father you’ve ever known? Isn’t your own father living?”
Nathan swallowed with difficulty.
“It’s a long story—rather sordid—too long for me to hope to explain.”
Madelaine noted the choke in his voice. She studied his well-shaped head and muscular, capable shoulders. Some live cinders had dropped into the stove’s open ashpan. They still burned. Those ruddy flames lighted his copper countenance. What a specimen of a man he was!