"Bless my soul, I love you, boy!" he added, sincerely.
"Love you through and through; and remember, I'm your white father
from this day forth."
"And I am your white mother," said the major's wife, placing her
hands on his shoulders.
For a second the bridegroom's face sobered. Before him flashed a
picture of a little old Indian woman with a broadcloth folded about
her shoulders, a small carven pipe between her lips, a world of
sorrow in her deep eyes--sorrow that he had brought there. He bent
suddenly and kissed Mrs. Harold's fingers with a grave and courtly
deference. "Thank you," he said simply.
But motherlike, she knew that his heart was bleeding. Lydia had
told of his parents' antagonism, of the lost Mansion title. So the
good lady just gave his hand a little extra, understanding squeeze,
and the good-byes began.
"Be off with you, youngsters!" growled the major. "The boat is
in--post haste now, or you'll miss it. Begone, both of you!"
And presently they found themselves once more in the carriage, the
horses galloping down to the wharf. And almost before they realized
it they were aboard, with the hearty "God bless you's" of the
splendid old major and his lovable wife still echoing in their
happy young hearts.
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