“Go back,” she said; “how dare you disobey orders?”
“I was coming to find you.”
“Well, that is the best excuse you could have made, but I am here; so sit down and drink this coffee and devour these sandwiches.”
“Not unless you share them with me.”
“Insubordinate! See here,” and she took out her more dainty provision from behind a seat and sat down opposite, in such a pretty, companionable way that he in his admiration and pleasure forgot his sandwiches.
“What is the matter?” she asked. “You are to eat the sandwiches, not me.”
“A very proper hint, Miss Ludolph; one might well be inclined to make the mistake.”
“Now that is a compliment worthy of the king of the Cannibal Islands.”
“Miss Ludolph,” said Dennis, looking at her earnestly, “you do indeed seem happy.”
A ray of light slanting through a yellow diamond of glass fell with a sudden glory upon her face, and in a tone of almost ecstasy she said: “Oh, I am so glad and grateful, when I realize what might have been, and what is! It seems that I have lost so little in this fire in comparison with what I have gained. And but for you I might have lost everything. How rich this first day of life, real, true life, has been! My Heavenly Father has been so kind to me that I cannot express it. And then to think how I have wronged Him all these years!”
“You have indeed learned the secret of true eternal happiness, Miss Ludolph.”
“I believe it—I feel sure of it. All trouble, all pain will one day pass away forever; and sometimes I feel as if I must sing for joy. I do so long to see my father and tell him. I fear he won’t believe it at first, but I can pray as you did, and it seems as if my Saviour would not deny me anything. And now, Mr. Fleet, when you have finished your lunch, I am going to ask one more favor, and then will dub you truest knight that ever served defenceless woman. You will find my father for me, for I believe you can do anything.”
Even in the shadow where he sat she caught the pained expression of his face.
She started up and grasped his arm.
“You know something,” she said; then added: “Do not be afraid to find my father now. When he knows what services you have rendered me, all estrangement, if any existed, will pass away.”
But he averted his face, and she saw tears gathering in his eyes.
“Mr. Fleet,” she gasped, “do you know anything I do not?”
He could hide the truth no longer. Indeed it was time she should learn it. Turning and taking her trembling hand, he looked at her so sadly and kindly that she at once knew her father was dead.
“Oh, my father!” she cried, in a tone of anguish that he could never forget, “you will never, never know. All day I have been longing to prove to you the truth of Christianity by my loving, patient tenderness, but you have died, and will never know,” she moaned, shudderingly.
He still held her hand—indeed she clung to his as to something that might help sustain her in the dark, bitter hour.
“Poor, poor father!” she cried; “I never treated him as I ought, and now he will never know the wealth of love I was hoping to lavish on him.” Then, looking at Dennis almost reproachfully, she said: “Could you not save him? You saved so many others.”
“Indeed I could not, Miss Ludolph; I tried, and nearly lost my life in the effort. The great hotel behind the store fell and crushed all in a moment.”
She shuddered, but at last whispered, “Why have you kept this so long from me?”
“How could I tell you when the blow would have been death? Even now you can scarcely bear it.”
“My little beginning of faith is sorely tried. Heavenly Spirit,” she cried, “guide me through this darkness, and let not doubt and unbelief cloud my mind again.”
“Such prayer will be answered,” said Dennis, in a deep, low tone.
They sat in the twilight in silence. He still held her hand, and she was sobbing more gently and quietly. Suddenly she asked, “Is it wrong thus to grieve over the breaking of an earthly tie?”
“No, not if you will say as did your Lord in His agony, ‘Oh, my Father, Thy will be done.’ ”
“I will try,” she said, softly, “but it is hard.”
“He is a merciful and faithful High Priest. For in that He Himself hath suffered, being tempted, He is able to succor them that are tempted.”
“Do you know that I think my change in feeling makes me grieve all the more deeply? Until today I never loved my father as I ought. It is the curse of unbelief to deaden everything good in the heart. Oh, I do feel such a great, unspeakable pity for him!”
“Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear Him.”
“Is that in the Bible?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“It is very sweet. He indeed must be my refuge now, for I am alone in the world.”
“He has said, ‘I will never leave thee nor forsake thee.’ I have passed through this sorrow so recently myself that I can sympathize with you as a fellow-sufferer.”
“True, true, you have,” she answered. “Is that the reason that Christ suffered with us—that we might know He sympathized with us?”
“Yes.”
“How unspeakably comforting is such sympathy, both human and divine! Tell me about your mother.”
“I fear I cannot without being unmanned. She was one of Heaven’s favorites, and I owe everything to her. I can tell you one thing, though, she prayed for you continually—even with her dying lips, when my faith had broken down.”
This touched Christine very deeply. At last she said, “I shall see her some day.”
“I wish you had seen her,” he
