drawing impossible cats and dogs and horses on
the margins. She had never disturbed him; she used to talk to herself in
whispers.

"Are you happy, little one?" he used to ask from time to time, with
a sort of passionate desire that he should enjoy her unconscious
childhood, foreseeing care and trouble for her in the future.

"Yes, very happy," had been the invariable response; and generally Erica
would avail herself of the interruption to ask his opinion about some
square-headed cat, with eyes askew and an astonishing number of legs,
which she had just drawn. Then would come what she called a "bear's
hug," after which silence reigned again in the study, while Raeburn
would go on writing some argumentative pamphlet, hard and clear as
crystal, his heart warmed by the little child's love, the remains of a
smile lingering about his lips at the recollection of the square-headed
cat.

And the years passed on, and every year deepened and strengthened their
love. And by slow degrees he had watched the development of her mind;
had gloried in her quick perception, had learned to come to her for a
second opinion every now and then; had felt proud of her common sense,
her thoughtful judgments; had delighted in her enthusiastic, loving
help. All this was ended now. Strange that, just as he hoped most from
her, she should fail him! It was a repetition of his own early history
exactly reversed. His thoughts went back to his father's study in
the old Scottish parsonage. He remembered a long, fierce argument; he
remembered a storm of abusive anger, and a furious dismissal from the
house. The old pain came back to him vividly.

"And she loves me fifty thousand times more than I ever loved my
father," he reflected. "And, though I was not abusive, I was hard on
her. And, however mistaken, she was very brave, very honest. Oh, I was
cruel to her harsh, and hateful! My little child! My poor little child!
It shall not it cannot divide us. I am hers, and she is mine nothing can
ever alter that."

He turned and went back into the room. Never had he looked grander
than at that minute; this man who could hold thousands in breathless
attention this man who was more passionately loved by his friends, more
passionately hated by his enemies than almost any man in England! He was
just the ideal father.

Erica had not stirred, she was leaning back in her chair, looking very
still and white. He came close to her.

"Little son Eric!" he said, wi