Authors: William March
Kenneth sighed, and again he pressed his palms against his forehead, as though to quiet some unbearable pain in his head. Then Mrs. Forsythe came in with the little girl, and Rhoda went at once to her father, to embrace him. He took her in his arms, and she smiled, tilted her head; and then pulling away, she danced across the carpet. She raised her chin a little, showing her shallow dimple, clapped her hands charmingly, and said, “What will you give me, if I give you a basket of kisses?”
“Come, darling,” said Mrs. Forsythe. “You aren’t strong yet. You mustn’t tire yourself.” Then, looking significantly at Kenneth,
she added, “She’s too young as yet to understand what happened. She’s such an innocent child in many ways.”
But the little girl was not to be diverted from her game. She did a little pirouette, curtseyed, and said, “What will you give me, Father? What will you give me if I give you a basket of kisses?”
There was a moment’s silence before Kenneth said, “I’ll give you a basket of hugs.” And then, as though the last vestige of his reserve were broken, he covered his face and wept with a harsh, tearing sound.
“Come, Rhoda,” said Mrs. Forsythe. “Come, my darling.” She took the child’s hand and led her to the door. “Let’s go downstairs and cut out paper dolls. Your father is tired out from his long plane trip. We’ll come back later when he’s rested.”
Then, turning to Kenneth, as though in reproof of his grief, she said, “You must not despair, Mr. Penmark, and become bitter. We cannot always understand God’s wisdom, but we must accept it. Everything was not taken from you as you think. At least Rhoda was spared. You still have Rhoda to be thankful for.”