"Papa! Do you think that I have gained naught from you? No strength, no resolution from seeing you toil on in your thankless work, without apparent results? If I have any energy and principle to carry me through I owe it to you."
He was moved, and raised his trembling hand and laid it on her golden head. He said no more, and was very still.
Presently she spoke. His hands weighed heavily on her head.
"Papa, you are listening to the roar of the sea?"
He made no reply.
"Papa, I felt a cold breath; and see, the sun has a film over it. Surely the sea is roaring louder!"
His hand slipped from her head and struck her shoulder—roughly, she thought. She turned, startled, and looked at him. His eyes were open, he was leaning back, almost fallen against the wall, and was deadly pale.
"Papa, you are listening to the roar?"
Then a thought struck her like a bullet in the heart.
"Papa! Papa! My papa!—speak—speak!"
She sprang from the bench—was before him. Her left guelder-rose had rolled, had bounded from her lap, and had fallen on the sand the old man had listlessly brought up from the church. His work, her play, were forever over.
