Of course that boy cares as much for my looks as for those of the Egyptian Sphinx. At one time I really hoped that Helen and he, since she would have to leave me some day, might grow fond of one another. I know how devoted he is to my girl, but I'm afraid she has made her own choice. I must write to Harry that we shall be leaving before long and that it will be too late for him to come now,—as, indeed, it is. What puzzles me is that, on his own part, that doctor never has seemed to be anything but a good friend to Helen. I suppose I was an old fool, and never saw things that went on under my nose. Poor Harry, he's such a splendid lad, and his father was my dearest friend, as you know.
Helen has been gone for hours, and I'm going to send Susie after her. In the meanwhile I have sought to possess my soul in patience by writing to you.
Affectionately yours,WALTER
From Miss Helen Jelliffe to Miss Jane Van Zandt
Dearest Aunt Jennie:
It is very disturbing to think that one has, in some ways, been a very naughty bad girl, and yet to be utterly unable to see how one could have acted any differently.
It is my fault that we are still here, though we were all ready to start, and were on our way to the yacht when we discovered that Dr. Grant had just returned from one of the outports and was dreadfully ill. He has been so kind to us that it was utterly impossible for us to leave him at such a time and I just had to insist on delaying our departure, and of course I made poor Daddy very miserable. TheSnowbirdhad to wing its flight away without us, hastening to seek help. We needed succor ever so badly, so very badly that if one of those strange vows of ancient days could have hastened her return by one little hour I would willingly have undertaken to drag myself on my knees along scores of miles of this rock-strewn shore. I begged Dad to send her, and he did, at once, for he was only too glad to do anything he could for the doctor, but he has been so dreadfully anxious on my account, and was so eager to take me away at once to some big place where I could be treated if I fell ill. You understand, of course, that I am not ill at all, and never was better in my life, and that there is no reason at all to be afraid for me.
Mr. Barnett and I left the house yesterday morning to go to the Frenchman's place, where the doctor has insisted on remaining. I was quite surprised to see a number of people around the poor little shack.
They all knew that Dr. Grant was very ill, and were gathered there with anxious faces. They simply looked worried to death. Isn't it wonderful, Aunt Jennie, how some people have the faculty of causing themselves to be loved by every one? Of course, his coming here has been such a great thing for these poor fishermen that they have learned to regard him as their best friend, one whose loss would be a frightful calamity. He certainly has never spared himself in their behalf.
Mr. Barnett stopped to shake hands with a few of them, and I heard little bits of their talk, which made me feel very unhappy.
"I jist seen Frenchy little whiles ago," one of them was saying, "and they wuz tears runnin' erlong the face o' he. Yes, man, he were cryin' like a young 'un, though some does say as his bye be better. Things must sure be awful bad with th' doctor."
The fisherman brandished his splitting knife as he spoke, and, with his torn oilskins dripping with blood and slime he was a terrible-looking figure, until his arms fell to his side and he stood there, an abject picture of dejection.
Then I heard a woman's voice. She is a poor thing whose husband and two sons were "ketched" last year, as they say, by these dreadful seas, and some think that her brain is a little affected.
"I mistrust as they is times when th' Lord 'Un's kept too busy ter be tendin' ter all as needs Him bad," she cried.
"Hush, woman!" an old man reproved her. "Ye'll be temptin' the wrath o'God on all of us wid sich talkin's."
The poor creature stopped, awed by the dread possibilities of bringing down further punishment upon the Cove, and began to weep in silence.
The men had removed their sou'westers and their caps when we came up to them. I believe that our arrival relieved them a little from their fears. They have such a touching faith in all who have been kind and friendly to them. It looked as if our coming was something material that they could lean upon, for, in their ignorance, they deem us capable of achieving wonderful things. I am certain that they firmly believe that their little parson is able to intercede with higher powers far more effectively than they possibly can, with their humble prayers. So a few of them returned to their fish-houses, and women and children hastened back to the flakes, since the sun was shining and the cod must be dried even if the heavens fall. I remember that when we entered the house I was very nervous and afraid. It is very natural, Aunt Jennie, for a girl to be frightened when she has never seen much sickness before, and one is lying helpless who has always been such a kind friend.
His little iron bed had been put up in a corner of the room, and the doctor was lying upon it, with his face very red. His breathing came very hard and rapidly, and it was horribly distressing to see a man brought to such a state, who, a few days ago, was so full of life and strength. Yet when he saw me he made an effort to rise to a sitting position, and his eyes brightened, but he looked anxiously at me.
"You haven't gone yet," he said, hoarsely. "And you, Barnett, have you no regard for your little chaps? You have no right to be here, and Frenchy is looking after me all right."
"You keep your breath to cool your porridge, boy," said the little parson. "I'm in charge now."
What a queer sort of freemasonry there must be among strong men, Aunt Jennie, which allows them to say gruff things to one another in friendly tones. The sick man seemed to recognize the little parson's authority and lay back, exhausted and conquered.
"I've done all I could," he said.
I was so sorry to hear the tone of discouragement in his voice. He is just a man, Aunt Jennie, with a man's weaknesses and a man's strength, and for the moment the latter had forsaken him. I suppose that some of his self-reliance had gone, for after a moment he smiled at us, and doubtless was glad to have friends with him and was comforted by their sympathy.
I could not help marvelling at the efficiency of the little parson, who, before they had a doctor here, was compelled to do the best he could to take care of sick people, assisted by his wife. He questioned the doctor, who wearily told him of some things that might be done for him, but without appearing to care. Mr. Barnett ran out of the house and up to Sammy's, returning with some bottles. He looked at labels ever so carefully and mixed some drugs with water, after which he wound some cotton on a stick to make a sort of a brush.
"Now sit up a little and let me fix your throat," he said. "Yes, you've got to take some of your own medicine now, old fellow. Frenchy, you get behind him and hold him up. The light is poor here; better bring your candle. Miss Jelliffe, hold it just this way for me. That's good. Now open your mouth, my boy."
He swabbed the throat, in which there were ugly, white patches, so conscientiously that it brought on severe coughing, and after this he compelled the doctor to swallow some medicine.
"If keeping at it will do you any good, old man, you may depend on me.And now we'll have a look at that kiddie."
I looked around the room, where there was an awful penury of all sorts of things, so that I went up to our house and brought back some provisions. I am afraid that I established a corner in milk, for I took nearly all that the poor, lone, lean cow of Sweetapple Cove could provide.
When Mr. Barrett finally sat down I noticed that he looked quite weary and exhausted.
"Now you must go to our house," I told him, "and get Susie to give you something to eat. I am sure that you have had nothing since last night, and I won't have you falling ill too. I have arranged it all, so please don't say anything but just go, and don't hurry back. There is plenty of time and poor Daddy would be so glad to see you. I am sure it would do him a lot of good. I can watch both the patients perfectly well. And, Frenchy, you must go too and Susie will look after you. You look perfectly starved, and I'm sure you've forgotten to have any breakfast. Make him go with you, Mr. Barnett!"
They protested a little, but finally went out, reluctantly.
Of course I have always looked after Daddy's comfort a good deal, but when you have plenty of servants it is very easy to do, especially when one has also an Aunt Jennie to come around from time to time and put fear in their hearts, when they don't behave. But it seemed to me that this was really the first time that I had tried to take charge of things, although it didn't really amount to anything. I suppose it comes quite naturally to a woman to boss things a little in a household.
But now all I could do was to sit down by the bed, with my hands folded in my lap. I have seen so many women do this for hours at a time, Aunt Jennie, and I could never understand how they did it without an awful attack of the fidgets. But now I think I have found the solution. I am persuaded that these women just sit down quietly, and that the strength flows back into them in some mysterious way, and presently they become as strong as ever, just as happens with those storage batteries of the automobile, which are all the time having to be recharged. I don't exactly know what the folded hands have to do with it, but they are certainly an indispensable part of the process.
Dr. Grant rested quietly enough, and sometimes, when he opened his eyes, I saw that he looked at me, in a strange, sad way. But he was exhausted by the malady and the hard work of the previous days, and seemed too utterly weary to be suffering much pain. At times the little boy would moan, and I would go to him. It would only take a passing of my hand over the little forehead, or a drink of water, to quiet him again. The poor wee man loves me, I think, and I hope he will never know what a tragedy he is responsible for, but, indeed, I hope he will learn, some day, that this great, rough fisherman, Yves, has laid down all of his life for him. When the child was quiet I would return and sit again by the doctor.
After a short time Mr. Barnett and Yves returned, and were soon followed by Daddy and Susie, whose sturdy arm supported him. Poor Dad! He was looking aged and worried, and I felt ever so sorry for him.
Susie's way of speaking to people is invariably to address them as if they were rather deaf, and as if no one else could possibly hear.
"Yis, sor," she was saying, "it's jist as you says, a real crazy, foolish thing. But fur as I kin see them kind o' things is what makes up the most o' folk's lives. They is some gits ketched all by theirselves, and others gits ketched tryin' ter help others, and some niver gits ketched at all an' dies peaceful in the beds o' they. If there didn't no one take chances th' world wouldn't hardly be no fit place ter live in."
I suppose that Daddy could find no reply to such philosophy. He was doubtless very angry on my account, and I am sure he had been giving Susie a piece of his mind, all the way down. He entered the shack, ordering Susie to remain outside.
"Don't you dare come in," he said, quite exasperated. "I have no doubt at all that you will have to look after all the rest of us when we get ill. You can go back to your pots and pans or wait for me out of doors, just as you wish."
Then he came in, closing the door behind him, and looked around the room, profoundly disgusted. Mr. Barnett was again engaged in swabbing throats while Frenchy supported the patients and I held a bottle in whose neck a candle had been planted. No one could pay much attention to him just then. Poor old Dad! He thinks that because the first emigrant in our family dates back a couple of hundred years or so we are something rather special in the way of human beings, and I know very well that he thought it most degrading for a daughter of his to be in such a miserable place. Of course it is really very clean, Aunt Jennie, because Yves has been trained on a man o' war, where the men spend nearly all of their time scrubbing things. I have seen them so often at Newport, where they wash down the decks even when it is pouring cats and dogs. The poor dear was rather red in the face, by which I recognized the fact that he was holding himself in for fear of an explosion.
But you know that there never was a better man than Dad, and he got all over this in a moment. Of course he had come with the firm intention of explaining to the poor doctor what a fine mess he had made of things, but as soon as he saw that poor, pinched face on the pillow he changed entirely. Quite a look of alarm came over his countenance, and he was certainly awfully sorry. I have an idea that people who have never been very ill, and who have never seen many sick people possess a little egotism which it takes experience to drive out of them. He had surely never thought that poor Dr. Grant would look so ill, and his bit of temper melted away at once. He forced himself to take the hand that was nearest to him.
"I hope you are doing very well," he said, with a queer accent of timidity that was really very foreign to his nature.
"They are taking splendid care of me," answered Dr. Grant, with an effort that made him cough.
Daddy smiled at him, in a puzzled sort of way, and then turned to the child's couch, gazing at it curiously. Mr. Barnett stood at his side.
"He doesn't look as ill as…"
He whispered this as he pointed to the bed where the doctor was lying.
"The boy is getting well," answered the parson, in a low voice. "He had a large dose of antitoxine and it is beginning to show its effect."
"Ah? Just so," said Daddy, weakly.
Then he looked around the room again, quite helplessly.
"Is there anything that I could do?" he asked in a general way.
"Nothing, Daddy," I said. "Thank you ever so much for coming, but there is nothing you can do now. I would go home if I were you. I promise that I will return in time for supper."
Then Daddy looked around again, as if all his habitual splendid assurance and decisiveness of manner had forsaken him. After this he tiptoed his way to the door, outside of which Susie was waiting. I followed him, because I knew he would feel better if I just put my hand on his arm for a moment and assured him that I was feeling perfectly well.
The girl pointed out at sea.
"It's a-comin' on dreadful foggy," she said, gloomily.
Daddy and I looked at one another, and we stared at the dark pall that was sweeping in, raw and chilly. Of course we at once knew its significance. It must surely detain theSnowbirdon its return journey.
Just then an old fisherman came up, touching his cap.
"Beggin' yer pardon, sor," he said. "Is yer after findin' th' doctor gettin' any better?"
"I can hardly tell you," answered Daddy, impatiently. "I know very little about such things, but he looks very badly to me."
"Oh! The pity of it!" exclaimed the man. "I tells yer, sor, it's a sad day, a real sad day fer Sweetapple Cove."
"Damn Sweetapple Cove!" Daddy shouted right in the poor fellow's face with such energy that he leaped back in alarm.
But Susie had taken hold of Daddy's arm.
"Now you come erlong o' me, sor," she said, soothingly, as if she had spoken to a child. "Don't yer be gettin' excited. Yer needs a good cup o' tea real bad, I'm a-thinkin', and a smoke. Yer ain't had a seegar to-day, and men folks is apt to get awful grumpy when they doesn't get ter smoke. Come erlong now, there's a good man."
Strange to say, Daddy went with her, willingly enough, after I had kissed him. He didn't resent Susie's manner at all. As I watched he stopped after going a few yards, and looked out at sea, beyond the entrance of the cove. Everything was disappearing in a dull greyness that was beginning to blot out the rocky cliffs, and he turned to the girl.
"My boat will never get back to-night," he said, "and I suppose that to-morrow will be worse. It always is. I wonder whether there is another such beastly country in the world?"
"I've heerd tell," remarked Susie, sagaciously, "as how they is some places as has been fixed so them as lives in 'em will sure know what a good place Heaven is when they gits to it."
Dr. Frank Johnson to Mrs. Charlotte Johnson
Dearest Mother:
I had expected to sail away from St. John's on the twentieth to return to you before resuming the hard search for something to keep together the body and soul which struggling young doctors without means have so hard a time to maintain in their proper relation. Since the oldChandernagorelimped into St. John's with its bow stove in, after that terrible collision, and the underwriters decided that she was hopelessly damaged, my prospects have been those of a man living on a pittance and merely entitled to his passage home and a trifle of salary.
A ship-surgeon utterly stranded can hardly be a very merry soul, and the day before yesterday I was strolling rather disconsolately about the docks, when I saw a stunning yacht come in. She was a sight to feast one's eyes on, and until the last moment was under a cloud of sail while her funnel belched black smoke. For a few minutes I saw some of the smartest handling of canvas it has ever been given me to behold. As she came on the great, silken, light sails fluttered, shrank and disappeared as if by magic; her headway stopped and the screw ceased its throbbing. She was just like a grand, white bird folding its wings and going to sleep. But even before she had ceased to move a boat was overboard and four men were at the sweeps, pulling for shore. A few minutes later I was passing in front of Simpson & Co., the big ship-chandlers who were theChandernagore'sagents, when one of the clerks came out and ran towards me.
"Won't you come in?" he asked, excitedly. "There is the skipper of that white yacht that just came in who wants a doctor at once, and at any cost. We supplied that boat after she left dry-dock here, some weeks ago. She belongs to regular swells, awfully rich people."
"Is the man hurt or ill?" I asked.
"No, he's all right. There is sickness at a little outport, diphtheria, I hear, and they want a man at once. Money's no object."
It really seemed as if a bit of luck might be coming my way, at last. Indeed I wanted badly to see your dear face again, and that silver hair I think so beautiful, but here was a prospect of sailing away on that stunning little ship and of earning some badly needed money, so that I felt like whooping with joy. I leaped through the open door and saw a very gold-laced man who was talking very fast to the head of the firm.
"Here's just the man you want," said the latter. "He's a first-rate young chap who will go anywhere and do anything. His skipper of theChandernagoreswears by him. I can send for him, if you like."
"No time for that," interrupted the yacht's captain. "There is diphtheria at Sweetapple Cove, and a doctor there who is nearly dead with it, I believe. I've sent our mate for all the antitoxine he can buy, and he's driving around to all the druggists in the place. We also want a nurse, several nurses, all you can get. I'm keeping steam up and will start the minute you're ready."
"And the remuneration," suggested Mr. Simpson.
"Anything he wants to ask," said the captain, hurriedly, turning again to me; "just get a move on you, young man. Run off and get some nurses; promise any money they want to charge, and I won't wait over an hour."
He saw a cab passing in the street and ran out to hail it.
"Here," he said, "get into this thing and hunt for nurses."
In his excitement he actually pushed me out of the shop and I jumped in the cab, without the slightest idea of where I might find the desired nurses. At the nearest pharmacy, however, I obtained a couple of addresses. I 'phoned to the hospital but there was none there who could be spared. On following up my clues I found both nurses away on cases. More telephoning brought the information that several might be had in a day or two, and finally I called up Simpson & Co., who informed me that the skipper was tearing his hair at the delay.
"He says you're to return at once. You can kill the cab-horse if you want to. He'll pay for it."
These were the last words I heard. I dashed off to the little hotel where I stayed, for my trunk, and soon we were galloping along the peaceful streets, here and there encumbered by pony-carts laden with vast piles of codfish, and finally reached the chandlery.
"Well?" asked the captain, rushing out.
"Not a nurse to be had to-day," I announced. "To-morrow or next day several may be disengaged."
There was an ejaculation excusable under the circumstance and the skipper grabbed my arm.
"I won't wait a minute," he said. "I've got a doctor, that's the main thing, and all the antitoxine in the place. Come along."
We jumped in the cab, which drove off rapidly, and in a minute we reached the dock, where the yawl was waiting. Two of the men grabbed my trunk and put it on board and the skipper tossed a banknote to the driver, without waiting for change, and we were off.
The men pulled towards the yacht, and they must have been watching for us on board for I heard the clanking of the small donkey engine and the anchor-chain stiffened and began to draw in, fast. We scrambled on board, the trunk was tumbled in, and before the yawl was half way up to the davits we were steaming away.
"Come up on the bridge if you want to, Doctor," the captain called down to me, civilly.
I accepted his invitation and ran up the steps. At his side stood a grizzled old man with a seamed, kindly face and the wrinkled eyes of the men who spend their lives searching through fog and darkness.
"Good day, sor," he said to me. "You're a man as is real sore needed atSweetapple Cove."
"I hope I may be of service," I answered.
"Ye will be, God willin'," he assured me.
By this time we had gathered full speed and were steaming fast between the narrow headlands. The pilot was dropped a little later, without slackening our way much. We had passed swiftly by the crowded flakes which clung to the steep, rocky shore, inextricably mixed with battered-looking fish-houses. As soon as we struck the swelling seas outside we saw many little smacks engaged in fishing. We bore no canvas, for the wind was against us on the return journey. Then I noticed that the skipper was looking anxiously ahead, where, at a distance, a low fog-pall was gathering.
"Yes, sor," said the old man, guessing at his thoughts, "it's a-comin' on real thick, but we's goin' ter pull her through."
I ran below and got my oilskins out of my trunk, which I discovered in a beautiful little state-room, prettily furnished and dainty-looking indeed to a surgeon of tramp steamers. I did not waste much time in inspecting it, however, as I was interested in our progress towards that ominous bank of fog. When I reached the bridge again I was conscious of the moist chill of northern mists, and saw that the vapor was closing down upon us fast. The land astern was disappearing in a grey haze, while ahead the thickness was becoming more and more impenetrable. The skipper kept walking from end to end of the bridge, restlessly, and I could sympathize with him. He was in a hurry, a deadly hurry, which he had shown plainly enough from the first moment my eyes had rested upon him, and now this mist was rendering all his haste futile, as far as I could see. Every moment now I expected to see him ring down to the engine room for reduced speed, but we kept on going, doggedly, blindly, until at last we were pitching over long, smooth swells that were covered by a blanket of murk.
"We'll have to slow down, Sammy!" he suddenly cried, impatiently, to the old man. "That fog's too much for us, and getting worse every minute."
"Keep on a bit yet," advised the latter. "'Tis all clear goin' fer a whiles, and we's too close inshore ter run into any big craft. They'll all be standin' out to sea."
I could see that the captain was torn between his keen desire to keep on speeding and his fear for the safety of his beautiful ship. He was utterly unable to keep still more than a minute at a time, but the old fisherman looked as cool and collected as if he had been puffing at his rank old pipe within the four walls of a house.
And those minutes seemed very long, then, as they always do when men are laden with the weight of constant suspense. Presently even the grey and blue waters our sharp bow was cleaving lost their color and the whole world was dismal, and grey, and dripping.
This went on for long hours, as it seemed to me, and finally the captain could stand it no longer.
"I'm going to ring for half speed," he shouted. "We can't keep this up,Sammy!"
"Let be, let be fer a whiles," the old man counselled again. "I knows jist where I be. I'll not be runnin' ye ashore, lad."
And the yacht kept on for a long, long time, cleaving the grey water and the fog, between which there was no difference now. It was really a spooky thing, even if a sporting one, to be dashing at fifteen knots through that wall of vapor. Our steam whistle was sounding constantly, and old Sammy listened with his grey head cocked to one side, in a tense attitude of constant attention.
"We's gettin' nigh," he said, quietly. "I knows the sound o' he."
Then, after a long, wailing blast, he suddenly lifted up his hand.
"Port a bit till I tells yer," he called. "That'll do. Keep her so."
The next sobbing cry of the siren brought a dull prolonged echo that reverberated in the air.
"I knowed we must be gettin' close to un," he said; "now we'll be havin' all open water again fer a whiles."
The captain was tremulous with the excitement he bravely sought to suppress, and my own heart was certainly in my throat. We were all straining our eyes at this moment, and all at once we dimly had revealed to us something like the shadow of a great ghost-like mass that slipped by us, very fast, with a roar of the great swells bursting loudly at its foot.
"Thunder! you Sammy!" shrieked the skipper. "I won't have you taking such chances. I'm just as crazy to get there as you are but I'll be hanged if I'm going to smash my ship."
"We's all right now, Cap'en," answered the old man, quietly; "I sure knows all right what we is doin'."
The captain had taken the wheel, and he glared at his binnacle like a wild man. Now and then he gave a swift look around him, nervously, but the old man's assurance had some effect upon him. Yet once I heard him snarling:
"Any man who ever catches me cruising around this country again can have me locked up in an asylum. After I get shut of this job they can get some one else if they ever want to come back."
And still the fog seemed to deepen, and the moisture dripped from everything, and the very air seemed hard to breathe. The darkness began to come and all our lights were burning, while the siren continued to moan. Several times, in answer to it, we faintly heard mournful sounds of fishermen's horns, and once we blindly swerved just in time to avoid running down a tiny schooner.
"Beggin' yer pardon, sor," the old man said to me, "seem' as how ye ain't busy it might be yer wouldn't mind startin' a bit of prayer as how we don't smash up one o' them poor fellows. We jist got ter take some chances, fer I mistrust th' Lord he be wantin' ter save that doctor o' ours an' only needs be asked the right way."
We were now shooting through that fog like lost wild things, like the ducks and geese bewildered of a stormy night, which mangle themselves against the wire nettings of light houses. Now and then the land abeam would give forth response to the booming of our whistle. The old man Sammy had taken the wheel and his grim face was frozen into an expression of desperate energy, as his keen little grey eyes peered through the murk. By this time there was a heavy roll and our tall spars were slashing at the mist as if seeking to cut down an unseen enemy. Every man on board was under a nervous tension, conscious that a big thing was being done. For a time there had been something akin to fear in all our hearts, but after a while it left us, to make room for the delirium of blind, reckless speed.
And then, suddenly, like a flash, the captain grasped the old fellow's shoulder.
"Slow down, man," he shrieked. "I bet all I've got you don't know where you are, and I can hear waves breaking ashore."
But Sammy lifted up his hand, with an authority that seemed inspired, and gave another pull at the whistle cord. It brought forth a sound that was repeated, again and again, confusedly. For a frightfully long half minute we kept up our speed; then the bell jingled in the engine-room and we slowed down a little. Under the old fisherman's hands the wheel began to spin around while we breathlessly watched him aim the ship at the furious breakers inshore, at the foot of dark cliffs.
"For God's sake! What are you doing?" yelled the captain.
The bell rang in the engine room to slow down and suddenly, on both sides of us, appeared like devouring jaws great mass of rock upon which the huge rollers were crashing in a smother of spume. Between them the yacht slipped, gracefully, and this time the siren's shriek was like a victorious cry. The bell sounded again and theSnowbird, after her long swift flight, came to a stop between the hilly sides of Sweetapple Cove, where men's voices roared indistinctly at us, and their forms stood dimly revealed by twinkling lanterns.
And now, mother dear, I am writing at the bedside of a man lying in a poor little hut, whom I shall leave soon for a few hours of badly needed rest. I shall stop for the moment, but I have a great deal more to say.
From Miss Helen Jelliffe to Miss Jane Van Zandt
Dearest Auntie:
It is again the little girl to whom you have been a mother for so many years who comes to you now, to lay her weary head upon your dear shoulder and seek from you the kindness and sympathy you have always so freely given me.
Last night I slept. Yes, slept like some dead thing that never cared whether it ever returned to life, but which would awaken, at times, stupidly, and toss until oblivion returned. I don't exactly know what it is that affects me so. It may be the long watching, I suppose, and the uneasiness of a heart that has lost its owner, and seeks and seeks again, turning for comfort like a poor lost dog to every face which may prove friendly. Just now things seem to be in such a dreadful tangle that I can not even find a thread of it that I can unravel.
Late in the evening, the day before yesterday, I was sitting by the bed where Dr. Grant was lying, and the conviction kept on growing upon me that he was becoming worse all the time. I could not help whispering my fears to Mr. Barnett, who gulped when he answered, as if he also knew what it is to have that dreadful lump in one's throat.
The long, weary hours dragged themselves along, and presently the doctor began to speak, and we bent forward to listen, because it was not very loud and he spoke fast. At first it was all a jumble of delirious words, but suddenly he looked at me and shook his head.
"My own poor darling," he said. "I am afraid that the sea has 'ketched' me, and that I shall never make that cove again."
Then he was still again, so very still that I was afraid, and the tears came and my head went down in my lap, between my hands, and the world became so full of bitterness that I did not feel as if I could stand it for another minute. The dear little parson put his hand on my shoulder, in that curiously gentle way of his.
"We must be strong," he told me, "and we must pray for power to endure."
He then rose, quietly, and moistened the doctor's lips and his brow while I looked on, feeling that I was the most desolate and helpless thing in the world, and as if I could weep for ever. And then all of a sudden, through the recurring booming voices of the waves breaking on the cliffs outside, burst out the shrill voice of theSnowbird'ssiren and I rushed to the door. Frenchy followed me, and I was so weak that I hung upon his big arm. In the sodden blur of everything I saw our boat coming in, like a great white ghost, and there were more blasts of her whistle. She knew what a welcome awaited her and how we had despaired of her arrival.
In the darkness I could see that people were rushing out of their houses, cheering, and I heard piercing cries of women.
"Th' white ship she've come back," some of them were screaming.
They were scrambling down towards the landing, just hoping that they might in some way be of service. The yacht had lost her headway but the propeller was still churning, and I could see that she was turning around to her mooring. Then I heard them putting the yawl overboard. Lights were breaking out of some of the fish-house windows, and lanterns swung on the little dock, and at last I dimly saw the rowboat coming. I ran down also, with Frenchy, and met Stefansson.
"I got all of that stuff there was in St. John's," he said, "and this gentleman is the doctor. We hunted high and low for a nurse but couldn't get one right off."
But what cared I for nurses just then? Was I not ready to do all that a woman possibly could? Was there a nurse in the world as ready as I to lay down her very life for her patient?
I seized the doctor's hand. I had never been so glad in all my life to see any one. He looked just like a big boy, but he represented renewed hope, the possibility of the achievement of a longing so shrewd that it was a bitter pain to endure it.
"You are going to help us save him!" I cried.
"I will most gladly do all I possibly can," he answered, very simply and quietly.
These doctors are really very nice people, Aunt Jennie dear. They speak to you so hopefully, and there seems to be something in them that makes you feel that you want to lean upon them and trust them.
When I had a better look at this one he appeared to be really very young, and perhaps just a little gawky, and he wore the most appreciably store-clothes, and the funniest little black string of a neck-tie. Isn't it queer that silly things should enter one's head at such times? But he looked like a fine, strong, honest boy, and I liked him for coming, and when he smiled at me I really thought he had a very nice face, and one that gave one the impression that he knew things, too.
"Please hurry," I said. "Come with me quick. Dr. Grant is dying, you know. I am sure he is dying, but perhaps those things you have brought will make him well again."
"I hope so," answered that doctor boy, and together we ran up the path to that poor little hut that holds all the world for me, perhaps a dying world, like those I have been told are fading away in the heavens.
He wasn't a bit out of breath, though I was panting when we reached the shack. He cast a quick look about him, and just nodded briskly to Mr. Barnett, like a man who has no leisure for small talk. He first went up to the little boy's bed, and looked at the parson, enquiringly.
"He's getting better," said the latter.
At once the new doctor turned away and stood by John's bed. I must say John now, Auntie dear, just when you and I are talking together. Perhaps it will only be for a few hours, or a day or two, that he can be John to me, in my heart and soul, for after that he may be only a memory, a killing one, as I feel now.
For a moment he stood there, immobile, looking at John, noting that awful grey color, and the rapid, hard breathing that sometimes comes in little sobs. And then he felt the pulse, coolly, and counted the respirations, in so calm a way that I began to feel like shrieking to him to do something. But all this really took but a very short time. He went to the little table, on which a lamp was burning, rather dimly, and opened the package which contained all those vials they had brought from St. John's. Captain Sammy had just come in, and stood near the door, and he sought my eyes for some message of comfort, but I could only shake my head sadly.
"This lamp gives a very poor light," said Dr. Johnson.
At once the old man leaped out and sprinted towards the nearest neighbor's. There he dashed in, seized the lamp around which the family sat at their evening meal, and rushed out again, leaving them in total darkness. Of course it went out in the wind and had to be lighted again, and I noticed that the young doctor gave a calm, curious glance at me, and Frenchy, and that his eyes swiftly took in all of the poor, sordid, little place.
I stood in a corner, out of the way, for now it seemed to me that I was of very little moment. This man was going to do everything that really mattered, and I would only sit by the bed, afterwards, and watch, and try and do things to help.
Dr. Johnson filled a syringe with the antitoxine and injected the stuff in Dr. Grant's arm, which looked awfully white, and then he turned to me.
"You need not stay any longer, Miss Jelliffe," he said, civilly. "I shall watch him all night."
"You are not going to drive me away?" I cried.
Then he looked at me again, curiously, and there was a tiny little nod of his head, as if he had just understood something, after which he took the poor little chair and pushed it near the bed.
"Won't you sit down?" he said, so gently that my eyes filled with tears, and again everything was blurred as I blundered to the seat.
He did some other things, and mixed medicines that he took out of a black bag, and made John take some. After this he sat down on a wooden box, near me, and watched in silence, and I felt that he was a friend. Mr. Barnett left, promising to return soon, and we remained there, listening to the quick breathing, and dully hearing the long, low booming of the great waves outside, till I fancied they were saying things to me, which I could not understand.
After a time Susie came in.
"Yer father says won't you please come in an' have yer supper," she said. "I knows ye'd rather stay here, but there ain't no jobs folks kin do better starvin' than when they's had their grub. An' th' poor dear man wants yer that bad it makes me feel sorry fer him."
"You ought to go and have something to eat, and rest a little, Miss Jelliffe," said the doctor. "This young person appears to have some rather sensible ideas, and you can return whenever you want to."
So I rose, because it wasn't fair to poor old Dad to leave him alone all the time. Of course it was hurting me to leave, but it would also have hurt to think that he would be having his supper all alone, so sadly.
"You will let me know if…."
"Of course I will," interrupted the doctor boy. "You may depend on me.I'll send the big chap here over, if there is any change."
"You are very good," I said. "I think—I think you are a very nice doctor."
To my surprise he blushed just a little.
"Thank you," he said. "Thank you very much."
There was a smile on his face, and I think I managed to smile a little too, and then I went off with Susie.
"They is some o' th' old women as tells about love medicines as can make folks jist crazy fer one another," she said, as we walked away, rapidly. "Seems ter me 'twould be good enough if some o' them doctors found out some drug as worked t'other way. This bein' in love is harder'n the teethache, an' is enough ter make one feel like hopin' ter be an old maid."
"Perhaps it does, Susie," I assented.
"Come in," cried Dad, as I pushed the door open. "Glad to see you, Helen. I hope the poor chap's better. I just had Stefansson up here, and he says that old Sammy tried his best to drown them all and smash the yacht to kindling. But he admitted that the way the old fellow slapped her through was a marvel. But next year he's going back to racing boats; says he's had enough of cruising."
He looked at me, as I sank wearily in a chair, too tired to answer.
"What's the matter, daughter?" he asked. "You are not ill, are you?"
He rose and came towards me, his dear loving face full of concern, and I jumped up too and kissed him.
"That's my own dear little girl," he said, much comforted. "And—and Helen dear, I don't suppose you will want to sail to-morrow, will you, or in a day or two?"
There was something very pleading in his voice, it seemed to me.
"Perhaps in a day or two it won't—it won't matter much what I shall do,Daddy dear," I answered.
He took me and pressed me to his breast and I felt as if many years were passing away, and I was again the desolate little girl who used to come to him with her woes, when a kitten died or a doll was broken. He sat again in his armchair, and I rested on the arm.
"Let us talk as in the old days, girlie," he said. "Let us be the loving friends we've been all these years. I want to see you happy. Your happiness is the only thing in the world that really concerns me now. To obtain it for you I would spend my last cent and give the last drop of my blood. You believe me, don't you?"
"Indeed I do, Daddy dear," I answered. "I don't deserve such kindness.I'm afraid I am a very selfish girl."
"You haven't an atom of selfishness in you, Helen. You are a woman, a true, strong, loving woman. We shall remain here as long as you want to. Now that there is another doctor here I am not so much afraid for you. If Grant should—should not recover, your old Dad's love may comfort you. And if, as I earnestly hope, he does get well, then come to me and tell me what you want. It shall be yours, girlie, with all my love. That's what I wanted to say."
I slipped off the arm of the chair, and sat down at his feet, looking up at him, through the blur that was in my eyes.
"I—I hardly dare hope he will get well, Daddy," I said, "and—and I don't know yet whether he loves me or not. This evening, in his delirium, he called me his darling, but never before this has he ever said a word of love to me. He's just been a friend to me, Daddy, such a friend!"
"How can he help loving you?" said the dear old man.
But I did not answer, and for a time we remained in silence, watching the wood fire in the tiny chimney, until Susie came in.
"Th' kittle's biled," she announced. "Me cousin Hyatt he've brung some meat off'n the mash, an' I briled some."
"I'm not very hungry, Susie," I told her.
"Nor me neither, ma'am, with all them goin'-ons," she confided. "But what's th' use o' despisin' any of th' Lord's blessin's, specially when they gits kinder scarce?"
So Daddy and I had our supper together, very comfortably, and really I did manage to eat a little, because the thought struck me that a girl couldn't possibly be beyond all hope of comfort as long as she had such a Dad, and I did my best to be brave. But soon after we had finished I became very restless and nervous, and Dad looked at me and patted my hand.
"I expect you'd better run along, my dear," he told me. "But you must really try to have some rest to-night. If that doctor promised to sit up you might just as well have a little sleep. You mustn't be ill, you know, for we all need you too much for that."
So I kissed him and hurried back to the shack, overtaking Mr. Barnett, who was also going there. Frenchy met us at the door.
"Mebbe heem Docteur no die now,hein! Mebbe heem leeve now. I think heem no die. What you think?"
"We hope and pray he may get well, my good man," answered the parson.
We went in, and Dr. Johnson rose.
"I can see no change as yet," he said, "but then it is hardly possible that any should occur so soon. At any rate he is no worse."
So Mr. Barnett and I sat down by the bed, and Dr. Johnson went away for some supper; I am sure he must have been nearly starving.
"He's been muttering a good deal," said the doctor before leaving, "but that is of no very great moment. The important thing is to watch him to prevent his getting out of bed, if he should become excitable. We must have no undue strain on his weakened heart."
So the little parson and I sat quietly by the patient, who appeared to be sleeping, and for a long time there was no sound at all, and I think we dreaded to move lest the slightest noise might rouse him.
But after a time, so suddenly that it startled me, came the hoarse, low voice that was so painful to hear, and I bent further forward to listen. At first the words were disconnected, with queer interruptions, so that they possessed no meaning, but presently I was listening, breathlessly. He appeared to be giving orders.
"You, Sammy, cast away the lines! Look lively there! Time, time, time!" he muttered. Then he seemed to be waiting for something and began again.
"I told you to be ready! The years, do you hear me? You are wasting the years. She's good for sixty miles an hour and it will take forty million years to reach the nearest star, where Helen waits. Can't make it, you say? Don't I see her beckoning!"
Then he turned his head, slightly, as if he were addressing some one very near.
"One has to have patience," he said. "They don't understand, and their fingers are all thumbs, and the hawser is fouling my propeller, and Helen calls, and—and I can do nothing."
His head, that had been slightly uplifted, fell back again, and two great drops gathered in the dark, sunken eyes and slowly ran down the hollowed cheeks.
Mr. Barnett turned to me. In his eyes there was a strange look of apprehension, as when one awaits yet fears an answer. But there was nothing that I could say to him. My heart was beating as though ready to burst. I cared nothing then for the little man who stared at me, and sank on my knees beside my poor unconscious John, lifting his limp hand to my lips.
From Miss Helen Jelliffe to Miss Jane Van Zandt
Aunt Jennie,darling:
Isn't the world just the most wonderful place? No one knows it at all until after it has played battledore and shuttlecock with them, and they have been tossed to and fro for a long time. Weren't those old Persians wonderful people? Of course they had no means of knowing the real truth but it surely was the next thing to it to worship the dear sun. It goes away and leaves things dark and dismal, and there may be hail and sleet and rain, and the outlook is all dark, but presently the clouds move and the fog blows away and the path of light twinkles over the big ocean and the very grasses of the hillsides perk up and the birds try to split their little throats with song. They are all sun-worshippers.
Of course you want to know at once how it all came about. I am still shaky and uncertain, as if I had just been awakened. Sometimes I hardly believe that it is the real truth that I behold, but merely some vision that must pass away like the gold and the crimson of the fading day.
John is getting well! I feel that I want to shout it farther than the voice of man ever carried before. I wish that wonderful Marconi could set all these little waves he makes in the air to vibrating at once and carry over the whole world the tidings that my John is going to live! Of course there were a few very dreadful days, and some nights that were agony, and that nice little doctor lost his red cheeks and looked pale and wan, and of course I was very, very tired. That dear Mrs. Barnett or her husband were always with me, and no one could ever make Frenchy leave the place for a minute, and old Sammy hovered around constantly. The people walked about the tiny village as if it had been a town smitten by a great pestilence, as used to happen in those old dark ages. There have been no more cases, because the doctor has injected some of that stuff in the arms of all who had been in the slightest degree exposed, and it doesn't hurt very much, Aunt Jennie.
But the amazing day was the one upon which I arose, before dawn, because they had just forced me to go to bed the night before, and I hurried down to Frenchy's, in the keen cold air, and met Dr. Johnson who was quietly pacing the road and smoking his pipe, which must have been very bad for him so early in the morning. But then I think we have all lost count of hours. When he heard my steps he turned quickly, and his cheeks looked quite pink again, perhaps owing to the cold, and his eyes were just as bright as bright could be, and he just ran towards me. I think my hands began to shake, for I had lost all memory of what a happy face looked like, I think, and the sight of his was like something that strikes one full in the chest and takes one's breath away.
He just grabbed both my hands, because he is such a nice friendly boy.
"Do you mean to tell me…." I began, but he interrupted me.
"Indeed I certainly do," he answered, speaking ever so quickly. "You had not been gone for more than a couple of hours when he opened his eyes and looked at me, very much puzzled, and made a little effort to rise, which of course I checked at once, though his pulse and temperature had gone down, and he looked a lot better.
"'You just keep still, old man,' I told him. 'Now is just the time to look out for sudden heart failure, so you must keep still, and have a good swig of this stuff, and try and have a nap. You've given us a proper scare, I can tell you, but now you're right side up.'
"And would you believe it, Miss Jelliffe, that big Frenchman jumped off his bunk and stared at him, and then he grabbed me and kissed me on both cheeks as if I'd been another blessed frog-eater, and I wanted to punch his nose but compromised by shaking hands instead. I could just have danced a hornpipe. And by this time Dr. Grant has taken a whole lot of nourishment, and got a good deal of real sleep during the night, and now he's behaving first-rate. I left Frenchy sitting near him, a short time ago, and came out to smoke the pipe of peace with all the world."
"You have saved him!" I cried.
"Well, we've all helped," he said. "It really looks now as if he were quite out of danger, because there is an immense change for the better, and that's a whole lot. I'll just take a peep in now to see if he's awake, because we mustn't disturb him if he isn't."
He left me standing in front of the poor little building, within whose walls we all had spent such terrible hours, and went in on tiptoe. Frenchy came out in his stocking-feet, the most disheveled man you ever saw, and suddenly I felt as if I were about to fall, in spite of the joy his eyes betrayed, and I grasped his big, hairy arm. But I felt better in a moment. The immense newborn sun was rising out of the waters, a huge, great, blood-hued thing, and the sky was aflame at last—after the awful, somber days, and seemed to burst out with tidings of great joy, like that wondrous star in the East.
And then the little parson came trotting down the road, for he is the most active little man you ever saw, and when he looked into our faces he stretched out his hands, and we grasped them happily.
"Oh! Mr. Barnett," I told him. "Indeed, it seems too good to be true."
"Dear young lady," he said, "nothing is ever too good to be true."
He was looking far away at the flaming sky, as if beyond it he had been able to discern some wonderful vision. He surely believes in infinite goodness, Aunt Jennie. His whole life is based upon his trust in it, and it is very beautiful. His words carried with them a world of hope, and suddenly I felt as if some great blessing were perhaps hovering above, like the big, circling sea-birds, and might descend to me.
Then Dr. Johnson came out and greeted the little parson, who has taken a great liking to him. Despite the great, dark circles around his eyes, strained as they had been by so many weary hours of watching, the young man's face was merry and boyish, for all that it gives promise of splendid manliness, and it was good to see. As he came to us his steps showed no signs of the fatigue he must have felt.
"He's awake," he announced. "He must have a great deal of rest and quiet just now, but I am sure your presence would give him pleasure, Miss Jelliffe. You won't let him talk very much, will you?"
"No," I promised, and could find no other words.
I moved towards the door, slowly, expecting the others to follow me, but they never stirred. It was as if by some common consent they had acknowledged some right of mine to enter alone. Suddenly my limbs began to drag under me, as if I had been a tottering, old woman. I wondered what his first look would say to me, what the first word from his lips would portend? It seemed as if I were going in there like one who sought some hidden treasure, knowing which door it lay behind but stricken with fear lest some unseen Cerberus might be crouching in wait for the rash seeker after happiness. Oh! Aunt Jennie! The tenseness of that moment! The feeling that, like theSnowbirda few days ago, I was moving through a fog-hidden world of peril!
My nails were dug into the palms of my hands as I entered the shack, and his head turned slowly as I came in, and in his eyes I saw the confession his babbling had revealed to me. But then an expression of pain came also, that made me involuntarily look at Frenchy's little crucifix on the wall.
So I just kneeled down by him, and once more took that poor thin hand within my own. I spoke very low, and in such a shaky voice, but very quick, for fear I might not be able to continue.
"Don't give up hope," I said. "We despaired for so many long days, and now you are getting well again, and the dear sun is rising from the mists, and the world is very beautiful, and I long to make it more beautiful for you."
I saw two big tears gathering in the corners of the poor sunken eyes, and the long white hand pressed mine, weakly, and that mark of the pangs of the crucified passed away.
"You must lie very still," I continued, "and let us make you well and strong again, for you've made dear Sweetapple Cove now, after being nearly 'ketched' by those dreadful seas, and I know that our little ship is coming safely to port."
For a moment he could only close his eyes, as if the poor, little, dawning light that was beginning to come through the windows had been too bright for him, but his hand pressed mine again. Then he looked at me once more, eagerly, as if he longed for other words of mine.
"No," I said. "One mustn't talk too much to people who have been so dreadfully ill, and really I can say nothing more now. Indeed I have said all I could, because a woman can't let her happiness fly away on account of—of people who are too proud to speak, but—but you can whisper a word or two."
There were three of them that came from his lips, those three thrilling words I had despaired of ever hearing from him.
"And I also love you, John, with all my heart and soul," I answered.
Then we were very still for some time, and presently some one coughed rather hard outside, and fumbled with the door, and the nice doctor boy came in.
"I mustn't allow you people to talk too long," he said. "It is time he had a good drink of milk, and after that he must have some more sleep, and we'll have him topside up in no time."
Then Mr. Barnett came in too, but he never said a word. There was just a glance, a pressure of hands, and that was all, but it seemed to mean ever so much to them.
So after a short time I went away, and the bright sun was streaming down upon our poor, little, smelly Sweetapple Cove, that was really like a corner of Paradise.
And now, Aunt Jennie, several more days have gone by, and John is getting stronger and stronger every hour.
Yesterday, for the first time, he sat up in a long deck chair that had been brought up from theSnowbird, and I sat beside him, with my knitting, which was only a pretence, for it lay on my lap, idly. It seemed to me that I had a million things to talk about, but when I spoke he answered in brief little weary words, so that I became afraid I might tire him. There is no porch to the little house, so he sat indoors in front of the widely opened door, whence he could see the cove, glittering in the sunshine, and the flakes covered with the silver-grey fish that were drying.
We remained in silence for a long time, and my hand rested on his, that was stretched out on the arm of the chair. Then he turned to me.
"Dearest," he said, "I am but sorry company for you, after all these days of devoted attention on your part."
"You are my own dear John," I answered. "I wish—I wish I knew that you were as happy as I."
"Listen, Helen," he said. "There is something that you must know."
And then, slowly, he told me a tale that began with his boyhood. There was a little girl, and he was very fond of her, and many times he told her she must be his little wife. And always she assented, so that gradually, as the years went by, it had become a habit of his mind to think of the days to come, when they would be married. Then he had gone away to a little college. When he returned for the holidays he always saw her again, but when he spoke of marrying her she blushed, and was timid, for she was passing away from childhood. In later days he saw less of her, but he always wrote long letters to his little comrade. After a few years he went abroad to study, but they corresponded often, telling of their plans and ambitions. One day he heard that she was going to New York to become a trained nurse, and he had finished his work abroad, so he took a steamer and went there too. On the days when she was at liberty for a few hours he met her, and those ideas of his boyhood became stronger than ever, and he asked her to marry him. Her reply was that they were too young yet and that they must wait, for she had no idea of becoming married for the present, because there were many things she wanted to do, and while she was ever so fond of him as a friend she did not think she loved him, though some day she might. But he had always thought it would be just a matter of time, for he had considered it a settled thing. Then he had come to Sweetapple Cove, and written to her often, for he expected her to return to Newfoundland soon. Her letters came rather seldom, for she was working very hard.
"And now, when she comes," he continued, "I shall have to tell her it was all a ghastly mistake on my part. I shall have to tell her the truth, brutally, frankly. I will have to say that I really never loved her; that it was a boy's idea that continued into a man's thoughts, until one day he realized that he loved another woman."
"But she really never loved you, John," I exclaimed. "If she had she never would have allowed you to go away."
"I hope to God she never did!" he exclaimed. "But in those old days I asked her to be my wife, and I told her I would wait for her. And she has always been very fond of me, at least as a good friend, and—and—who knows? I hate the idea that I must perhaps inflict pain upon her, some day."
But I shook my head, obstinately.
"No, she never loved you," I insisted. "I know now how people love. It is a desire to cling to one, to be ever with him, to share with him toil, and pain, and hunger, joyfully, happily, for all the days and days to come. And when you have to leave me I shall be restless and nervous, like that poor dear Mrs. Barnett, until you come back and I can be glad again. Oh! John! That girl never loved you!"
Just then the little parson's wife came up, smilingly as ever.
"Are you two having lover's quarrels already?" she asked.
"No," I answered, "I was explaining to him that no other woman ever could—or—or ever would…."
"Oh! My dear," she interrupted, "the explanation of obvious things is one of the most delightful privileges of the engaged state, and I won't interrupt you any more. I'm going to see the new Burton baby, and, by the way, here is a lot of stuff for Dr. Grant, that has been accumulating. I suppose he may be allowed to show a faint interest in his mail, at least after his nurse leaves him. Good-by, you dear children."
She put a large bundle of papers and letters in John's lap, and went away, waving her hand cheerily. John didn't pay the slightest attention to his correspondence at first, for we began to discuss some plans we were making for a little house, but after a few moments he idly turned over the medical papers, and the pamphlets and circulars, and suddenly his eyes fell on a letter, that was addressed in big bold characters.
I knew at once that it was from that girl, and a little shudder came over me. I rose and walked away towards Frenchy's child, who was now well and playing with a long-suffering woolly pup, and began to talk to him. But all the time I was watching and listening. I suppose one can't help doing such things. Then I heard him calling me, and I hurried back.
He held the letter out to me.
"Read it, Helen?" he asked me.
"Please," I said, "just tell me about it. It is her own letter, John, and meant for you only."
"She tells me I have been the best friend a girl ever had, and that if she gives me pain it will not be without a pang on her own part. She says that the object of her being on earth is now revealed to her."
"Yes," I answered, "and then…."
"Then she announces her coming marriage with Dr. Farquhar, the man who has been in charge of the medical work of the Settlement."
"You must write and tell her how happy you are to hear the good news, John, and you must tell her our plans. And I want to talk very seriously to you, John."
"What is it, dear?" he asked.
"Well," I said, "I want to say that you have been very bad, because you didn't believe me, or you only believed a little bit, when I told you she didn't love you. Now I expect you to have a great deal of respect for my opinions, in future."
He promised, and said I was perfectly wonderful, and that he was the happiest man in the world. And then, Aunt Jennie, we sat again ever so long without saying more than a few words. And the stillness was like bars of a wonderful music whose notes one can't remember but which leaves in one's heart an impression of glorious melody. One can't write of such things, for I am sure that ink never flowed from a pen able really to describe that which lies in the hearts of men and women at such times.
And then Daddy came, smiling all over, for he spoke the truth indeed when he said my happiness was his only concern. He's the dearest Daddy in all the world.