eautiful woman--I myself, I, Laura Gale!' Oh, you don't know--nor do I.
And so she felt her way along--eagerly, hungrily, making mistakes--and you
and I left her to do it alone. I'm afraid we both rather neglected her,
dad," Deborah ended sadly. "And all we can do now, I think, is to give her
the kind of wedding she wants."

Roger started to speak but hesitated.

"What is it?" she inquired.

"Queer," he answered gruffly, "how a man can neglect his children--as I
have done, as I do still--when the one thing he wants most in life is to
see each one of 'em happy."

CHAPTER VI

Roger soon grew accustomed to seeing young Sloane about the house. They
could talk together more easily, and he began to call him Harold. Harold
asked him with Laura to lunch at the Ritz to meet the aunt from Bridgeport,
a lady excessively stout and profound. But that ended the formalities. It
had all been so much easier than Roger had expected. So, in its calm sober
fashion, the old house took into its life this new member, these new plans,
and the old seemed stronger for the new--for Laura and Edith and Deborah
drew together closer than they had been in many years. But only because
they felt themselves on the eve of a still deeper and more lasting
separation, as the family of Roger Gale divided and went different ways. At
times he noticed it sadly. Laura, who had scarcely ever been home for
dinner, now spent many evenings here. She needed her home for her wedding,
he thought. Each daughter needed it now and then. But as the years wore
slowly on, the seasons when they needed it grew steadily wider and wider
apart....

Early in May, when Roger came home from his office one night he found
Edith's children in the house. From the hallway he could hear their gay
excited voices, and going into the dining room he found them at their
supper. Deborah was with them, and at once her father noticed how much
younger she appeared--as she always did with these children who all
idolized her so. She rose and followed him into the hall, and her quiet
voice had a note of compassion.

"Edith's baby is coming," she said.

"Good Lord. Is anything wrong?" he asked.

"No, no, it's all right--"

"But I thought the child wasn't due for three weeks."

"I know, and poor Edith is fearfully worried. It has upset all her plans.
I'd go up and see her if I were you. Your supper is ready; and if you like
you can have it with the children."

There followed a ha