"Was Maria's mamma prettier than my mamma?" asked Evelyn, calmly, without the least jealousy. She looked scrutinizingly at Maria, then at her father. "I think Maria is a good deal prettier than mamma, and I suppose, of course, her mamma must have been better-looking than mine," said she, answering her own question, to Harry's relief. But she straightway followed one embarrassing question with another. "Did you love Maria's mamma better than you do my mamma?" she asked. Maria came to her father's relief. "That is not a question for little girls to ask, dear," said she. "I don't see why," said Evelyn. "Little girls ought to know things. I supposed that was why I was a little girl, in order to learn to know everything. I should have been born grown up if it hadn't been for that." "But you must not ask such questions, precious," said Maria. "When you are grown up you will see why." Harry insisted upon Evelyn's going to bed directly after dinner, although she pleaded hard to be allowed to sit up until her mother returned. Harry wished for at least a few moments alone with Maria. So Evelyn went off up-stairs, after teary kisses and good-nights, and Maria was left alone with her father in the parlor. "You are not well, father?" Maria said, immediately after Evelyn had closed the door. "No, dear," replied Harry, simply. Maria retained her self-composure very much as her mother might have done. A quick sense of the necessity of aiding her father, of supporting him spiritually, came over her. "What doctor have you seen, father?" she asked. "The doctor here and three specialists in New York." "And they all agreed?" "Yes, dear." Maria looked interrogatively at her father. Her face was very white and shocked, but it did not quiver. Harry answered the look. "I may have to give up almost any day now," he said, with an odd sigh, half of misery, half of relief. "Does Ida know?" asked Maria. "No, dear, she does not suspect. I thought there was no need of distressing her. I wanted to tell you while I was able, because--" Harry hesitated, then he continued: "Father wanted to tell you how sorry he was not to make any better provision for you," he said, pitifully. "He didn't want you to think it was because he cared any the less for you. But--soon after I married Ida--well, I realized how helpless she would be, especially after Evelyn was born, and I had my life insured for her benefit. A few years after I tried to get a second policy for your benefit, but it was too late. Father hasn't been well for quite a long time." "I hope you don't think I care about any money," Maria cried, with sudden passion. "I can take care of myself. It is _you_ I think of." Maria began to weep, then restrained herself, but she looked accusingly and distressedly at her father. "I had to settle the house on her, too," said Harry, painfully. "But I felt sure at the time--she said so--that you would always have your home here." "That is all right, father," said Maria.