"I'm--I'm not much," the husky voice ventured on; "but what you said
about going away--for my sake--do you think you need to do it?"
"I've made--such a mess of myself," she choked out.
"Other people were to blame," he said. "And out of it all, I think
you're going to be what--what I dreamed you were. And--and--"
There was another stifling silence. "Yes?" she prompted.
"I wanted to keep out of your life--for your sake," he went on in his
strained, suppressed voice. "But--but if you're not ashamed of me now
that you know all"--in the darkness his groping hand closed upon
hers--"I wish you wouldn't--go away from me, Maggie."
And then the surging, incoherent thing in her that bad been struggling
to say itself this last half-hour, suddenly found its voice in a
single word:
"Father!" she cried, and flung her arms around his neck.
"Maggie!" he sobbed, crushing her to him.
All the way to Cedar Crest they said not another word; just clung to
each other in the darkness, sobbing--the first miraculous embrace of a
father and daughter who had each found that which they had never
expected to have.
CHAPTER XXXVII
It was ten the next morning at Cedar Crest, and Larry Brainard sat in
his study mechanically going over his figures and plans for the
Sherwood housing project.
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