"Yes, yes," he agreed for the fourth time, "a very fine boy. I must say I
give myself some credit for your marriage and its successful result."
Mrs. Clarke paused in her tea-pouring and gazed absently off across the
tree tops.
"I suppose I ought to be happy," she said, and she sighed.
"Every heart knoweth its own--two lumps, thank you, and a dash of rum. I
was saying--Oh, yes! I was about to remark that we are all prone to
magnify our troubles. Now here you are, after all these years, still
brooding over your unfortunate father, when he is probably long since
returned to France, quite well and happy."
"If I could only be sure. It has been so long since we heard, nearly
thirteen years! The last letter was the one you got when Mac was born."
"Yes, and I answered him in detail, assuring him of your complete
recovery, and expressing my hope that he would never again burden you
until with God's help he had mastered the sin that had been his undoing."
Mrs. Clarke shook her head impatiently.
"You and Macpherson never understood about father. He came to this
country without a friend or a relation except mother and me. Then she
died, and he worked day and night to keep me in a good boarding-school,
and to give me every advantage that a girl could have. Then his health
broke, and he couldn't sleep, and he began taking drugs. Oh, I don't see
how anybody could blame him, after all he had been through!"
"For whatever sacrifices he made, he was amply rewarded," the bishop
said.
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