She said to
herself, quickly, that her father had forgotten Old Chester, that was
all. Of course, he had forgotten it!--or else--She did not allow
herself to reach the alternative which his confusion so inevitably
suggested:--secrecy, protected by a lie. In the recoil from it she was
plunged into remorse for a suspicion which she had not even
entertained. Truth was so much to this young creature, that even the
shadow of an untruth gave her a sense of uneasiness which she could
not banish. She looked furtively at her father, sorting out some
papers, his lips compressed, his eyebrows drawn into a heavy frown,
and assured herself that she was a wicked girl to have wondered, even
for a minute, whether he was perfectly frank. He! Her ideal of every
virtue! And besides, why should he not be frank? It was absurd as well
as wicked to have that uneasy feeling. "I am ashamed of myself!" she
declared hotly, and took up her novel....
But David had thrown the smooth stone from the brook!
It was a very little stone; the giant did not know for many a day
where he had been hit; yet it had struck him in the one vulnerable
point in his armor--his daughter's trust in him. How the wound widened
does not belong to this story.
When Dr. Lavendar came bustling back with his tickets, David was
absorbed in thought. He had very little to say on the long day's
journey over the mountains.
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