at last urged her, at
least, to try and hinder any sudden betrayal that would cause her
brother an unnecessary shock. Under the pressure of this motive, she
resolved to turn before she reached her own door, and firmly will the
encounter instead of merely submitting to it. She had already reached
the entrance of the small square where her home lay, and had made up
her mind to turn, when she felt her embodied presentiment getting
closer to her, then slipping to her side, grasping her wrist, and
saying, with a persuasive curl of accent, "Mirah!"

She paused at once without any start; it was the voice she expected,
and she was meeting the expected eyes. Her face was as grave as if she
had been looking at her executioner, while his was adjusted to the
intention of soothing and propitiating her. Once a handsome face, with
bright color, it was now sallow and deep-lined, and had that peculiar
impress of impudent suavity which comes from courting favor while
accepting disrespect. He was lightly made and active, with something of
youth about him which made the signs of age seem a disguise; and in
reality he was hardly fifty-seven. His dress was shabby, as when she
had seen him before. The presence of this unreverend father now, more
than ever, affected Mirah with the mingled anguish of shame and grief,
repulsion and pity--more than ever, now that her own world was changed
into one where there was no comradeship to fence him from scorn and
contempt.

Slowly, with a sad, tremulous voice, she said, "It is you, father."

"Why did you run away from me, child?" he began with rapid speech which
was meant to have a tone of tender remonstrance, accompanied with
various quick gestures like an abbreviated finger-language. "What were
you afraid of? You knew I never made you do anything against your will.
It was for your sake I broke up your engagement in the Vorstadt,
because I saw it didn't suit you, and you repaid me by leaving me to
the bad times that came in consequence. I had made an easier engagement
for you at the Vorstadt Theater in Dresden: I didn't tell you, because
I wanted to take you by surprise. And you left me planted
there--obliged to make myself scarce because I had broken contract.
That was hard lines for me, after I had given up everything for the
sake of getting you an education which was to be a fortune to you. What
father devoted himself to his daughter more than I did to you? You know
how I bore that disappointment