If that failed, why, then, there was a
way to cure all ills.

From her box, that in which were hidden away many heart-breaking
mementoes of her life as an actress, she took out a sheet of notepaper
and an envelope. Without much thought, she wrote nearly three pages,
folded the letter, addressed it with a name only 'Mr. Kirkwood.'
Sidney's address she did not know; her father had mentioned Red Lion
Street, that was all. She did not even know whether he still worked at
the old place, but in that way she must try to find him. She cloaked
herself, took her umbrella, and went out.

At a corner of St. John's Square she soon found an urchin who would run
an errand for her. He was to take this note to a house that she
indicated, and to ask if Mr. Kirkwood was working there. She scarcely
durst hope to see the messenger returning with empty hands, but he did
so. A terrible throbbing at her heart, she went home again.

In the evening, when her father returned, she surprised him by saying
that she expected a visitor.

'Do you want me to go out of the way?' he asked, eager to submit to her
in everything.

'No. I've asked my friend to come to Mrs. Holland's. I thought there
would be no great harm. I shall go down just before nine o'clock.'

'Oh no, there's no harm,' conceded her father. 'It's only if the
neighbours opposite got talkin' to them when they come back.'

'I can't help it. They won't mind. I can't help it.'

John noticed her agitated repetition, the impatience with which she
flung aside difficulties.

'Clara--it ain't anything about work, my dear?'

'No, father. I wouldn't do anything without telling you; I've promised.'

'Then I don't care; it's all right.'

She had begun to speak immediately on his entering the room, and so it
happened that he had not kissed her as he always did at home-coming.
When she had sat down, he came with awkwardness and timidity and bent
his face to hers.

'What a hot cheek it is to-night, my little girl!' he murmured. 'I
don't like it; you've got a bit of fever hangin' about you.'

She wished to be alone; the children must not come into the room until
she had gone downstairs. When her father had left her, she seated
herself before the looking-glass, abhorrent as it was to her to look
thus in her own face, and began dressing her hair with quite unusual
attention. This beauty at least remained to her; arranged as she had
learned to do it for the stage, the dark abundance of her t