Benita felt that the words were an apology for the past, and her heart
was touched.

"It is nothing," she answered. "You did not know or mean it."

"No, dear, I never knew or meant it. Believe me, I was not a willing
sinner, only a weak one. You are beautiful, Benita--far more so than I
expected."

"What," she answered smiling, "with this bandage round my head? Well,
in your eyes, perhaps." But inwardly she thought to herself that the
description would be more applicable to her father, who in truth,
notwithstanding his years, was wonderfully handsome, with his quick blue
eyes, mobile face, gentle mouth with the wistful droop at the corners so
like her own, and grey beard. How, she wondered, could this be the man
who had struck her mother. Then she remembered him as he had been years
before when he was a slave to liquor, and knew that the answer was
simple.

"Tell me about your escape, love," he said, patting her hand with his
thin fingers. "You don't know what I've suffered. I was waiting at
the Royal Hotel here, when the cable came announcing the loss of the
_Zanzibar_ and all on board. For the first time for many a year I drank
spirits to drown my grief--don't be afraid, dear--for the first time and
the last. Then afterwards came another cable giving the names of those
who were known to be saved, and--thank God, oh! thank God--yours among
them," and he gasped at the recollection of that relief.

"Yes," she said; "I suppose I should thank--Him--and another. Have you
heard the story about--how Mr. Seymour saved me, I mean?"