that he saw her not. He was looking
beyond her and facing the home-going alone, and the empty life that would
follow.

Her thoughts the last few days had matured her wonderfully. She understood
and pitied, and her woman-nature longed to give comfort, yet she shrunk
from going unasked. It was all terrible, this sudden situation thrust upon
her, yet she felt a willing sacrifice if she but felt sure it was his
wish.

But David did not seem to know that he must speak. He waited, looking
earnestly at her, through her, beyond her, to see if Heaven would grant
this small relief to his sufferings. At last Marcia summoned her voice:

"If David wishes I will go."

She spoke the words solemnly, her eyes lifted slightly above him as if she
were speaking to Another One higher than he. It was like an answer to a
call from God. It had come to Marcia this way. It seemed to leave her no
room for drawing back, if indeed she had wished to do so. Other
considerations were not present. There was just the one great desire in
her heart to make amends in some measure for the wrong that had been done.
She felt almost responsible for it, a family responsibility. She seemed to
feel the shame and pain as her father was feeling it. She would step into
the empty place that Kate had left and fill it as far as she could. Her
only fear was that she was not acceptable, not worthy to fill so high a
place. She trembled over it, yet she could not hold back from the high
calling. It was so she stood in a kind of sorrowful exaltation waiting for
David. Her eyes lowered again, looking at him through the lashes and
pleading for recognition. She did not feel that she was pleading for
anything for herself, only for the chance to help him.

Her voice had broken the spell. David looked down upon her kindly, a
pleasant light of gratitude flashing through the sternness and sorrow in
his face. Here was comradeship in trouble, and his voice recognized it as
he said:

"Child, you are good to me, and I thank you. I will try to make you happy
if you will go with me, and I am sure your going will be a comfort in many
ways, but I would not have you go unwillingly."

There was a dull ache in Marcia's heart, its cause she could not
understand, but she was conscious of a gladness that she was not counted
unworthy to be accepted, young though she was, and child though he called
her. His tone had been kindness itself, the gentle kindliness that had won
her childish sist