was
about to happen. Was he writing a message to Chester?

From the other side of the table she watched him write slowly and
laboriously until the page was full. Then he paused, looked up at Lucy
opposite, reached for another sheet and began again. That sheet was also
filled, and the girl's wonder grew. Then he pushed them across the
table, saying, "Read;" and while she did so, he turned from her, his
head bowed as if awaiting a sentence of punishment.

A little cry came from the reader as her eyes ran along the penciled
lines. Then there was silence, broken only by her hard breathing, and
the ticking of the clock on the mantel. Then while the father still sat
with bowed head, the girl arose softly, came up to him, kneeled before
him, placed a hand on each of his cheeks, kissed him, and said:

"You are my father anyway--always have been, always will be--the only
one I have ever known. Thank you for taking me an outcast, orphaned baby
and adopting me as your own. Oh, I _love you daddy for that_!

Just a few days before a son had found a father at this man's knee; now
by the same knee Lucy first realized that this man was her father only
in the fact that he had fathered her from a child; but as that, after
all, is what counts most in this world, she thought none the less of
him; rather, her heart went out to the man in a way unknown before.

"Chester doesn't know this?" she asked. "Chester is _not_ my brother?"

"No."

"Oh, he must know this--he must know right away," she panted.

"Yes--I meant to tell--but I couldn't--" said he.

"I know daddy dear; I know, don't worry. We'll send for him right
away--poor boy. There's Captain Brown now. I'll run down and ask him to
send a telegram. Yes, I have his address."

She kissed him again, holding his head between her palms, and saying
softly, "Daddy, dear daddy." Then she sped down to where the Captain was
talking in the hall. The Rev. Thomas Strong looked up, listened to their
conversation, and then smiled.

CHAPTER XVIII.

The reason why Chester permitted Lucy and his father to set out for
Ireland without him was because he trusted Uncle Gilbert--and the Lord;
however, it was no easy matter to be thus left behind. Surely, he would
be more of a help than a hindrance on the journey. He forced himself to
lie abed the morning they were to be off, until after the train left.
Then, knowing he was safe from doing that which his Uncle had desired
him not to do, h