At last Mr. Houghton said: "It's strange we've heard nothing from those Bodines. They appear to accept their lives from your hand as a matter of course;" and the old man watched the effect of these tentative words.

George flushed, but said gently: "Dear father, try to be just, even in your enmities. I have heard from Captain Bodine, and--"

"What! have you been corresponding with them, and all that?" interrupted Mr. Houghton irritably. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I merely replied to Mr. Bodine's note the day after the accident. Since then I have not heard from any of the rescued party, nor have I made the slightest effort to do so. Dr. Devoe said you required quiet of body and mind, and I have not done anything which would interfere with this."

"Thank you, my boy, thank you heartily. I shall owe my life more to your faithful attendance than to Dr. Devoe."

"I am glad to hear you say that, whether it is true or not. I wish you to live many years, and to take the rest to which a long and laborious life ent.i.tles you. I will show you Captain Bodine's letter if you wish."

"Well, let me see what the rebel has to say for himself."

"Humph!" Mr. Houghton e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, finishing the letter. "What did you say in reply?"

George repeated the substance of his note.

"And nothing has pa.s.sed between him, his daughter, or you since?"

"Nothing whatever."

"I suppose by this time that little gust of pa.s.sion, inspired by the daughter's pretty face, has pa.s.sed?" and he looked at his son keenly.

"It would have pa.s.sed, father, if it had been only a gust of pa.s.sion, and inspired merely by a pretty face."

"Humph! Do you mean to say that you love her still?"

"I cannot control my heart, only my actions."

"You will give her up then, since it is my wish?"

"I cannot give up loving her, father. If I had drowned and gone to another world I feel that I would have carried my love with me."

There was another long silence, and then Mr. floughton said, "But you will control your action?"

"My action, father, shall be guided by most considerate loyalty to you."

"But you will not promise never to marry her?"

"It is true, indeed, that I may never marry her, for I have no reason whatever to think that she cares for me in any such way as I do for her.

As long as her father felt as he did, I could not approach her. As long as you feel as you do, I cannot seek her, but to give her up deliberately would be doing violence to the best in my nature. I know my love is the same as that which you had for mother, and G.o.d would punish a man who tried to put his foot on such a love. I feel that it would keep me from the evil of the world."

"The first thing you know, George, you will be wishing that I am dead."

"No, father, no!" his son cried impulsively. "You would do me wicked wrong in thinking that. A foolish, guilty pa.s.sion might probably lead to such thoughts, but not a pure, honest love, which prompts to duty in every relation in life. I can carry out your every plan for me without bolstering myself by marrying wealth and position. My self-respect revolts at the idea. A woman that I loved could aid me far more than the wealthiest and highest born in the land. I believe that in time you will see these things as I cannot help seeing them. Until then I can be patient. I certainly will not jeopardize your health by doing what is contrary to your wishes. Don't you think we had better drop the subject for the present?"

"Yes, I think we had," said Mr. Houghton sadly, but without any appearance of irritation.

CHAPTER x.x.xVIII

"YES, VILET"

With the exception of Aun' Sheba's household, the final days of August were pa.s.sing quietly and uneventfully to the other characters of our story. Little Vilet had received something like a sunstroke, and she never rallied. Day and night she lay on her cot, usually wakeful and always patient. It would seem that her vital forces were sapped, for she grew steadily weaker and thinner. Aun' Sheba did little else than wait on and watch her, except when Kern was home. When off duty at the fire department, he would permit no one else to do anything for his child but himself. The little girl preferred his attendance even to that of her mother, and the strong man would carry her up and down his little yard in the cool night air by the hour, or rock her to sleep on his breast when the sun was high. No touch was so gentle as his, or so soothing. He would hush his great, mellow voice into soft, melodious tones as he sung her favorite hymns, and often her feeble treble would blend with his rich baritone. He yearned over her with inexpressible tenderness, counting the minutes when on duty till the hour came which permitted his return.

In his agony of apprehension "his flesh jes drap off'n him," as Aun' Sheba and his wife said. He slept little and ate little, but was always punctual at the engine-house to the minute.

Mara and Ella visited the child daily, and tried to tempt her failing appet.i.te with delicacies. Sissy, Vilet's mother, hovered about her child most of the time, when her housekeeping duties and the care of the other children permitted, but after all her chief solicitude centred in her husband. She and Aun' Sheba often said, "Kern, ef de Lawd wants her we mus jes gib her up. De Hebenly Fader hab de fust right."

"I hab my feelins all de same," Kern would reply. "Ef de Lawd put sech feelins in my heart I can't help it."

On the evening of the 31st of August, Vilet was very feeble. The closeness and heat oppressed her. All, except Uncle Sheba, made a poor pretence of supper. Nothing affected his appet.i.te, and, having cleared the table, he went over to his own doorstep and lighted his pipe. Before it was finished he was dozing comfortably against the doorcase. Aun' Sheba, with a great sigh, lighted her pipe also, and sat down on the Watson steps with her daughter that they might breathe cooler air. Kern took up his little daughter, and began to walk in the yard and sing as usual.

"Well," e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Aun' Sheba, "Missy Mara's call yis-tidy 'lieve my min'

po'ful. I'se couldn't tromp de streets wid a basket now nohow. Missy Mara say she won' begin bakin' till I'm ready. She look too po'ly to tink ob it hersef. Lor! what a narrow graze she an de res ob dem hab! No won'er she all broken up. Dat awful 'scape keeps runnin ebin in my dreams. Bress de good Lawd dat brung Ma.r.s.e Houghton right dar in time!"

"Missy Ella an' Ma.r.s.e Houghton oughter hab dey own way now, shuah," Sissy remarked.

"I reckon dey will," Aun' Sheba answered. "Missy Ella look kin'er dat-a-way. Dey was all agin her 'fore de ax'dent, but now I reckon dey's all cabed in, from what she says, eben ef she ain't talkin' much. I 'specs ole man Houghton is de mos' sot;" and then their anxious thoughts reverted to the sick child.

"Daddy," said Vilet, when her father had finished a hymn, "I wants ter talk wid you."

"Well, chile, wot you wants ter say?"

"I wants you ter let me go to Hebin, daddy."

"I doesn't feel dat I kin spar' you, Vilet," and she felt his tears dropping on her cheeks.

"Yes, daddy, you kin, fer a little while. I'se gittin' so-o tired," and she sighed wearily, "an' you'se gittin' all worn out too."

"No, deah chile, I'd ruder tote you all de res' ob my bawn days. I couldn't stan' comin' home an' not fin' you lookin' fer me nohow."

Vilet thought a while in silence and then said, "Daddy, I'se keep a-lookin' fer you jes de same. I'se gwine ter ax de good Lawd ter gib me a little place on de wall near de pearly gate, an' dar I'se watch an' wait till you come, an' moder, an' granny all come. I kin watch bettah up dar, fer I won' be so bery, bery tired. Won' you let me go? 'Pears I couldn't go to Hebin widout you says, 'Yes, Vilet.'"

The man's powerful frame trembled like an aspen; convulsive sobs heaved his breast as he carried the child to the further corner of the yard. At last he buried his face in her neck and whispered, "Yes, Vilet."

"Dat's good an' kin' ob you, daddy. You fin' me waitin' and lookin' fer you, shuah."

Kern grew calm after his mighty struggle, and, in his simple faith, believed that angels were around him, ready to take his child when he should lay her down. He began to sing again, and, a little before nine o'clock, repaired to his post of duty.

As the days pa.s.sed without any further communication from Houghton whatever, Ella's first glow of hope began to pale. She tried to banish all other thoughts except that Mr. Houghton was very ill or as obdurate as ever. On the last day of August, however, she heard a rumor that the invalid was better, and that his son was soon to take him North. Then her faith began to falter. If George should go away without seeing her, without a word or a line, what must she think? The tears would come at this possibility. She had noted that her father and cousin had ceased to speak of him, and that their bearing toward her was very gentle, giving her the impression of that deep yet delicate sympathy which is felt for one destined to pa.s.s through a very painful ordeal.

On the evening of this miserable day she yielded, for the first time, to great dejection, and was about to retire to her room early when Mrs.

Bodine said kindly, "Don't go away, Ella. I feel strangely oppressed, as if I could scarcely breathe."

"I feel oppressed too, Cousin Sophy."