Those walks worked wonders. A new tone was heard in his voice, a new expression was seen in his eyes. Courage, it seemed likely, would begin to thrive on oxygen and exercise.
One day Margaret said to him,
"Come, father, let's see how the flowers look after the rain."
He had been walking all the morning up and down the piazza, and she had caught glimpses of his face now and then that distressed her; for her little successes in the effort she was making to bring him out of his gloom had had an effect on herself much more surprising than was produced on him. He turned now and looked at her. Was he such a mass of feebleness that his child found it necessary to speak in that way to him?
He followed her, however—for she had run on as if she expected him to follow, and that, he now perceived, had been her way of late. He had half a mind to turn back, but he went on. It might chance that he would find opportunity and strength to say to her some of those things which must be said. He had forfeited his rights in that beautiful young life. He must plainly tell her so.
It seemed, from the way she went about among the flower beds, appealing to him constantly, that she must have had an intimation of the thoughts passing through his mind; for at last, when she had talked herself out, and with such results as to make her turn from the flowers with an air of disgust, she went up to him and said what only a child driven to desperation would have dared to say.
"Father, are you happy here?"
"Happy! Do you think there is any such thing as happiness for me anywhere?"
Nothing like that had he ever said to any one. Margaret was startled and frightened, but she came quite out from among the rose vines and bushes, and stood near him on the lawn under the willows.
"None, father?" She forgot every girl in Dunham—every inquisitive eye, every gossiping tongue. "Nowhere?"
"Never, Margaret, never."
"Is it Dunham that's the matter?" she asked, faltering.
"No, child, no. It's only—myself"
She looked away from him. She couldn't bear to look at him when he said that.
"Shall we go away?" she said.
"We—who?"
"We. You and I. Father and Mag."
"No. We can't go anywhere—we two."
"Are you going, then? Do you think I will let you?"
"If I must, Margaret will let me."
Margaret hesitated a moment. She was not a girl to tease, and hug, and cry when the thing she desired looked hard to attain.
"I see now," she said, what mother meant. She told me I must go with you. So," she added, almost gayly, "you will not be able to get rid of me, for where thou goest I will go."
Was it strange that when she said that, Joseph Hazard groaned and wept? There were those who were more faithful to him than he had been to his own honor!
"I always thought we should be going somewhere. Let's go right away,"
