"I put it
in her trunk the day I laid her out yonder under the pines." The Pilot,
without looking at him, rose and reverently took the book in both his
hands and said gently:
"It was a sad day for you, but for her--" He paused. "You did not grudge
it to her?"
"Not now, but then, yes! I wanted her, we needed her." The Old Timer's
tears were flowing.
The Pilot put his hand caressingly upon the old man's shoulder as if he
had been his father, and said in his clear, sweet voice, "Some day you
will go to her."
Upon this scene poor Gwen gazed with eyes wide open with amazement and
a kind of fear. She had never seen her father weep since the awful day
that she could never forget, when he had knelt in dumb agony beside the
bed on which her mother lay white and still; nor would he heed her till,
climbing up, she tried to make her mother waken and hear her cries. Then
he had caught her up in his arms, pressing her with tears and great sobs
to his heart. To-night she seemed to feel that something was wrong. She
went and stood by her father, and, stroking his gray hair kindly, she
said:
"What is he saying, daddy? Is he making you cry?" She looked at The
Pilot defiantly.
"No, no, child," said the old man, hastily, "sit here and listen."
And while the storm raved outside we three sat listening to that ancient
story of love ineffable.
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