en to write."

"That is not strange; he must be a very busy man. Doubtless he will come
when he can make time. I shall be glad to see Mr. Jefferson."

"But--you see--he wants us to come there."

"Us?"

"You and me. Father Davy--you understand, dear; don't make me put it
into words!"

Her father's arm came about her and she buried her face in his thin
shoulder. "Thank God!" he said fervently, under his breath. "Thank the
good God, who knows what we need and gives it to us."

After a minute's silence: "But we can't go, Father Davy."

"Can't we? I could not, of course, but you----"

"I couldn't go without you--to his house. And--we haven't any money."

"No money? Is it so bad as that?"

"And if we had--I'm not sure that I want to take a journey to a man--so
that----"

"Let me see the telegram, my dear," requested Mr. Warne. When he had
read it he regarded his daughter with a curious little smile. She was
sitting upon the floor, close beside his couch, her brilliant eyes now
raised to his face, now veiled by their heavy lashes. "It seems clear
enough," he said. "Concessions must be made to a man who belongs to the
people as he does. I don't think it would be a sacrifice to your
dignity, daughter, if you were to go."

"But, Father, darling, don't you see? I didn't want to tell you, but
there was no other way. We have quite enough to live on--without
extras--till the next rug money comes. But that may not be for a month;
they are always slow. And for us to go to New York--well, we could just
about get there. We couldn't get clear home. Father Davy, I can't
go--penniless--_to him_!"

He lay looking at her down-bent head with its splendid masses of dark
hair, at the beautiful lines of her neck in her low-cut working frock of
blue-and-white print, at the shapely young hands gripping each other
with unconscious tenseness in her lap. His eyes were like a woman's for
understanding, and his lips were very tender. Slowly he raised himself
to his feet.

"Stay just where you are, daughter," he said, "till I come back."

She waited, staring at the old crimson pillow with eyes which saw again
the drawing-room in Aunt Olivia's apartment and the profile of Doctor
Craig's face as he turned from her at Chester Crofton's interrupting
question. That was more than three weeks ago----

Father Davy was gone some little time, but he came back at length at
his slow, limping pace, and sat down upon the couch. He held in his hand