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.

'O father, father, I could not leave you so, I made him bring me back,
if only for a few days! O father, father! for you are my father, the
only father I can ever know,--and so kind and good!'

In the gloom she knelt by his bedside, and her arms were around his
neck. Waring came in afterwards, silent and annoyed, yet not unkind.
He stirred the dying brands into a flame.

'What is this?' he said, starting, as the light fell across the
pillow.

'It is nothing,' replied Fog, and his voice sounded far away; 'I am an
old man, children, and all is well.'

They watched him through the dawning, through the lovely day, through
the sunset. Waring repentant, Silver absorbed in his every breath; she