While
she nibbled them he took down an old violin and played music that
made her want to dance and sing. Rachel was perfectly happy.
She wished she might stay forever in that low, dim room with all
its treasures.
"I see your little friends coming around the point," he said,
finally. "I suppose you must go. Put the rest of the goodies in
your pocket."
He took her up in his arms and held her tightly against his
breast for a single moment. She felt him kissing her hair.
"There, run along, little girl. Good-by," he said gently.
"Why don't you ask me to come and see you again?" cried Rachel,
half in tears. "I'm coming ANYHOW."
"If you can come, COME," he said. "If you don't come, I shall
know it is because you can't--and that is much to know. I'm
very, very, VERY glad, little woman, that you have come once."
Rachel was sitting demurely on the skids when her companions came
back. They had not seen her leaving the house, and she said not
a word to them of her experiences. She only smiled mysteriously
when they asked her if she had been lonesome.
That night, for the first time, she mentioned her father's name
in her prayers. She never forgot to do so afterwards. She
always said, "bless mother--and father," with an instinctive
pause between the two names--a pause which indicated new
realization of the tragedy which had sundered them. And the tone
in which she said "father" was softer and more tender than the
one which voiced "mother.
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