"
Joan did not speak for a time. She could see him grave--a little
pompous, in his Sunday black, his footsteps creaking down the
stone-flagged aisle, the silver-edged collecting bag held stiffly in his
hand.
"Couldn't you have saved a bit, Daddy?" she asked, "of all that wealth of
youth--just enough to live on?"
"I might," he answered, "if I had known the value of it. I found a cable
waiting for me in New York. My father had been dead a month; and I had
to return immediately."
"And so you married her and took her drum away from her," said Joan. "Oh,
the thing God gives to some of us," she explained, "to make a little
noise with, and set the people marching."
The little flame died out. She could feel his body trembling.
"But you still loved her, didn't you, Dad?" she asked. "I was very
little at the time, but I can just remember. You seemed so happy
together. Till her illness came."
"It was more than love," he answered. "It was idolatry. God punished me
for it. He was a hard God, my God."
She raised herself, putting her hands upon his shoulders so that her face
was very close to his.
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