"She always had those wonderful dark eyes. She's pale
enough now, but as a child she was rosy. Taking her place
of a winter evening, with the snow on her fur cap and
her hair, I often thought her a picture. I liked to have
her attention while I was preaching, even as a child;
and when she was absent I missed her. It was through my
ministrations that she saw her way to professing the
Church of Christ, and under my heartfelt benediction that
she first broke bread in her Father's house. I hold the
girl in great affection, Finlay; and I grieve to hear
this."
The other drew a long breath, and his hand tightened on
the arm of his chair. He was, as we know, blind to many
of the world's aspects, even to those in which he himself
figured; and Dr Drummond's plain hypothesis of his
relations with Advena came before him in forced
illumination, flash by tragic flash. This kind of revelation
is more discomforting than darkness, since it carries
the surprise of assault, and Finlay groped in it, helpless
and silent.
"You are grieved, sir?" he said mechanically.
"Man, she loves you!" exclaimed the Doctor, in a tone
that would no longer forbear.
Hugh Finlay seemed to take the words just where they were
levelled, in his breast. He half leaped from his chair;
the lower part of his face had the rigidity of iron.
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