Waring had
joined them on the balcony. He bore with her awhile and tried to calm
her grief, but the girl turned from him and clung to the old man; it
was as though she saw at last how she had robbed him. 'I cannot leave
him thus,' she sobbed; 'O father, father!'
Then Waring struck at the root of the difficulty. (Forgive him; he was
hurt to the core.) 'But he is not your father,' he said, 'he has no
claim upon you. I am your husband now, Silver, and you must come with
me; do you not wish to come with me, darling?' he added, his voice
sinking into fondness.
'Not my father!' said the girl. Her arms fell, and she stood as if
petrified.
'No, dear; he is right. I am not your father,' said old Fog, gently. A
spasm passed over his features, he kissed her hastily, and gave her
into her husband's arms. In another moment they were afloat, in two
the sail filled and the boat glided away. The old man stood on the
castle roof, smiling and waving his hand; below, Orange fluttered her
red handkerchief from the balcony, and blessed her darling with
African mummeries. The point was soon rounded, the boat gone.
That night, when the soft spring moonlight lay over the water, a sail
came gliding back to the castle, and a shape flew up the ladder; it
was the bride of the morning.
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