"Mary," he cried, after pushing the hair from her forehead, "can it, indeed, be my child—has the little girl whom I left in England grown to be a woman!"
He held her close in his embrace as though he feared that something would happen to prevent his seeing her again. He kissed the tears from her cheeks, and begged her to be calm, and to tell him about her voyage, and lastly to speak about her husband and children.
Her sobs were her only response. He grew impatient at her refusal to answer his interrogations, and then suspicions of foul play entered his imagination.
"There has been some wrong done you," he cried, appealing to his daughter.
She answered with tears and moans.
"Speak, and tell me who has dared to injure you," he cried vehemently. "Was it your husband?"
His brow grew threatening and black, as he put the question.
There was no reply, but his daughter clung to his neck with a more convulsive grasp, as though she feared to lose her parent also.
He glanced from Smith to Fred, and from the latter to myself, as though debating whether we were the guilty party.
"Tell me," he cried, lifting her head from his shoulder, and seeking to get a glimpse of her face, "who has wronged you?"