"And I prefer that he shouldn't," her father replied. He had seated himself with his face half turned away from the light. "I have many hard things to bear, Sally, and, strange as it may seem to you, I try to bear them with patience. I have to, so why make a virtue of necessity? That speech of Charlie's--made in ignorance--was less hard for me than your own." "I am sorry," Sally said again, "but I meant what I said, most emphatically. You are not to suppose that I didn't. But I am sorry for my manner--if it hurt you." He smiled faintly. "It was not intended to soothe or to amuse, I take it," he remarked. And he lapsed into silence, fingering his hat nervously and turning it around in his hands. Sally sat gazing at the lined old face before her a long time without speaking. As she looked, her eyes softened even more and grew tender--and those eyes could be wonderfully tender. He bore her gaze as well as he could, but he was ill at ease. If the truth must be told, his mood had softened, too, and the very fact embarrassed him. Perhaps he remembered the days of the little lizard and the coal-trees and the occasions when the gynesaurus had climbed to the topmost branch and gazed forth upon a wide prospect of tree-tops and swamps. It could not have been pleasant to recollect those days. For him, they were no more and could be never again. He was roused by Sally's low voice. "Oh, father," she said impulsively, "why do you do it? Why can't you give it up? I could get your lizard for you. Why not return to your old life? You might do something yet. At least, it would be a comfort to be respectable." He laughed at that. "No doubt it would," he observed, "be a great comfort to be respectable. And no doubt it would be a great comfort to you to have a respectable father; reformed; dragged from the depths." The tears came to Sally's eyes. "Does your programme," he asked then, nonchalantly, "include--er--reuniting a family long separated by circumstances? You may remember that I mentioned the matter once before." She shook her head slowly and regretfully. "I'm afraid not. I couldn't consent to exposing mother to the--" She hesitated and stopped. "The dangers incident to such an arrangement?" he suggested. "Pardon me for supplying what you were considerate enough to omit. Perhaps you are wise. And Charlie?" "And Charlie." She nodded. "You see, yourself, that such a thing could not be--at any rate, until you have proved that you could do it." "I couldn't," he answered promptly. "Don't think that I haven't tried. I have tried, repeatedly. I hate the life, but I can't give it up. But," he added, "you need not have been afraid for Charlie." "I am very much afraid for Charlie," said Sally simply, "in any case. He is sick of it now. How long the present mood will last, I do not know. Could you manage that he is not allowed to play at--at your--" He bowed gravely. "That can be arranged, I think." "Thank you, father."