The uncle agreed to that. "We'll have to stop at Liverpool for a day or so--I have it!" he exclaimed, "Captain Andrew Brown is now at home. He told me to be sure to call, and bring you all with me. He has a very nice house up the Mersey--a fine restful place. We'll go there."

And they did. Lucy could say nothing for or against, and the father was so ill by the time they reached Liverpool that he did not seem to realize what he was doing or where he was going. A cab took them all out from the noises of the city to the quiet of the countryside. It was afternoon, and the sun shone slantingly on the waters of the river, above which on the hills amid trees and flowering gardens stood the house of Captain Andrew Brown.

As the carriage rolled along the graveled path to the house, the captain himself came to meet them, expressing his surprise and delight, and welcoming them most heartily. The minister was helped out and into the house, where he was made comfortable. Lucy was shown to her room by the housekeeper. Uncle Gilbert made explanations to the captain of the reason for this untoward raid on his hospitality.

"I'm mighty glad you came," said the captain. "You couldn't possible have gone on, and as for stopping at a hotel--if you had, I should never have forgiven you."

The sick man would not take anything to eat. He lay as if half asleep, so he was put to bed. Lucy remained with him during the evening. Once in a while he would open his eyes, reach out his hand for hers and hold it for a moment. Poor, dear father, she thought, as she stroked his hair softly. What could Chester mean to leave his father, even for a few days? He ought to be here.... She could not understand. Was it all just an excuse to get away from them? to get away from this newly-found father and sister? She would not believe that of Chester. That couldn't be true, and yet, and yet--

She turned lower the light, went to the window, and looked out on the river. A crescent moon hung above the mist. The water lay still as if asleep, only broken now and then by some passing craft. The breeze played in the trees near the window and the perfumes of the rich flower beds were wafted to her. The girl stood by the window a long time as if she expected her lover-brother to come to her through the half darkness.

Perhaps, after all, it was better he did not come. Perhaps he had acted wisely.

The father lay as if sleeping, so she continued to look out at the moon and the water. Her heart burned, but out of it came a prayer. Then she quietly kneeled by the window sill, and still looking out into the night she poured out the burden of her heart to the Father whose power to bless and to comfort is as boundless as the love of parent for child.

Captain Brown was not an old man, yet in his fine strong face there were deep lines traced by twenty years on the sea. Ten years on the bridge basking in the sun, facing storm and danger had told their tale. He was in the employ of a great navigation company whose ships went to the ends of the earth for trade. He had built this home-nest for wife and child, to which and to whom he could set the compass of his heart from any port and on any sea. Three years ago wife and child had taken passage over the eternal sea. Now he came back only occasionally, between trips. His housekeeper always kept the house as nearly as possible like it was when wife and child were there.

"I have a week, perhaps ten days ashore," explained Captain Brown next morning at the breakfast table, "and I was just wondering what I could do all that time--when here you are! You are to remain a week. Tut, tut, business"--this to Uncle Gilbert who had protested--"you ought not to worry any longer about business. Aren't we making you good money? Oh, I see! Aunt Sarah; well, we'll send for her. Your father can't possibly be moved, can he, Miss Lucy?"

"He's very comfortable here," replied Lucy.

"To be sure he is--and you, too, look as though a rest would help you."

"I have to get back soon--ought to be in Cork tomorrow, in fact," said Uncle Gilbert.

"Well, now Gilbert, if you _have_ to, I've no more to say--about you.

Go, of course; but Lucy and her father are going to stay with me. I'm the doctor and the nurse. You go to Aunt Sarah, for that's your 'business reason' and it's all right--I'm not blaming you--and in a week come back for your well brother."

"Yes, that might do," agreed Uncle Gilbert, with much relief in his manner of saying it. "I don't like to impose on you--"

"Look here--if you want to do me a favor, you go to your wife and let me take care of these people. In fact," he laughed, "I don't want you around bothering. The steamer sails for Dublin this evening."

Out of this pleasant banter came the fact that Uncle Gilbert could very well go on his way to Ireland. His brother was in no immediate danger--in fact that morning he was resting easily and his power of speech was returning. Gilbert spoke to his brother about the plan, and no protest was made. So that evening, sure enough, Uncle Gilbert was driven in to Liverpool by the captain, where he set sail for home.

No sooner was his brother well out of the way than Lucy's father called to her. He had been up and dressed all afternoon. He was now reclining in the captain's easy chair by the window. Lucy came to him.

"Yes, father," she said.

He motioned to her to sit down. She fetched a stool and seated herself by him, so that he could touch her head caressingly as he seemed to desire.

"Where is Chester?" he asked slowly, as was his wont when his speech came back.

"In London," she replied. "He could not come with us."

"So--Gilbert said;--but I--want him."

"Shall we send for him?"

"Yes."

The father looked out of the window where shortly the moon would again shine down on the river. He stroked the head at his knee.

"Lucy, you--love me?"

"Oh, father, dear daddy, what a question!"

"I--must--tell you--something--should--have told you--long ago--"

It was difficult for the man to speak; more so, it appeared, because he was determined to deliver a message to the girl--something that could not wait, but must be told now. Impatient of his slow speech, he walked to the table and seated himself by it.

"Light," he said; and while Lucy brought the lamp and lighted it he found pencil and paper. She watched him curiously, wondering what was about to happen. Was he writing a message to Chester?

From the other side of the table she watched him write slowly and laboriously until the page was full. Then he paused, looked up at Lucy opposite, reached for another sheet and began again. That sheet was also filled, and the girl's wonder grew. Then he pushed them across the table, saying, "Read;" and while she did so, he turned from her, his head bowed as if awaiting a sentence of punishment.

A little cry came from the reader as her eyes ran along the penciled lines. Then there was silence, broken only by her hard breathing, and the ticking of the clock on the mantel. Then while the father still sat with bowed head, the girl arose softly, came up to him, kneeled before him, placed a hand on each of his cheeks, kissed him, and said:

"You are my father anyway--always have been, always will be--the only one I have ever known. Thank you for taking me an outcast, orphaned baby and adopting me as your own. Oh, I _love you daddy for that_!

Just a few days before a son had found a father at this man's knee; now by the same knee Lucy first realized that this man was her father only in the fact that he had fathered her from a child; but as that, after all, is what counts most in this world, she thought none the less of him; rather, her heart went out to the man in a way unknown before.

"Chester doesn't know this?" she asked. "Chester is _not_ my brother?"

"No."

"Oh, he must know this--he must know right away," she panted.

"Yes--I meant to tell--but I couldn't--" said he.

"I know daddy dear; I know, don't worry. We'll send for him right away--poor boy. There's Captain Brown now. I'll run down and ask him to send a telegram. Yes, I have his address."

She kissed him again, holding his head between her palms, and saying softly, "Daddy, dear daddy." Then she sped down to where the Captain was talking in the hall. The Rev. Thomas Strong looked up, listened to their conversation, and then smiled.

CHAPTER XVIII.

The reason why Chester permitted Lucy and his father to set out for Ireland without him was because he trusted Uncle Gilbert--and the Lord; however, it was no easy matter to be thus left behind. Surely, he would be more of a help than a hindrance on the journey. He forced himself to lie abed the morning they were to be off, until after the train left.

Then, knowing he was safe from doing that which his Uncle had desired him not to do, he leisurely arose, very late for breakfast.

The problem with the young man now was what to do while he was waiting.

London sights, even those he had not seen before, were tame now. The newly-found father and sister had already left him. Had it not been a dream, and was he not now awake to the reality of his old life?

He found himself once more attracted to the Mission headquarters. Elder Malby was at home that morning. Chester told him the latest development.

"Has she--have they--deserted me, do you think?" asked Chester.

"No--I don't think so," replied the elder thoughtfully. "Lucy did not impress me as a girl who would do that. I see no reason for such actions, but perhaps Uncle Gilbert was right. Your father needed to get away from you to readjust himself to the new condition."