It was not an easy task for Helen Ward to face her father just then. As she went in search of him she tried to put from her mind all that she had seen and to remember only that he was ill. She found him in the most distant and lonely part of the grounds, sitting with his face buried in his hands--a figure of hopeless despair. While still some distance away, she forced herself to call cheerily, "Hello, father." As he raised his head, she turned to pick a few flowers from a near-by bed. When he had had a moment to regain, in a measure, his self-control, she went toward him, arranging her blossoms with careful attention. Adam Ward watched his daughter as she drew near, much as a condemned man might have watched through the grating of a prison window. "What is it, father?" she asked, gently, when she had come close to his side. "Another one of your dreadful nervous headaches?" He put a shaking hand to his brow. "Yes," he said wearily. "I am so sorry," she returned, sitting down beside him. "You have been thinking too hard again, haven't you?" "Yes, I guess I have been thinking too hard." "But you're going to stop all that now, aren't you?" she continued, cheerily. "You're just going to forget the old Mill, and do nothing but rest and play with me." "Could I learn to play, do you think, Helen?" "Why, of course you could, father, with me to teach you. That's the best thing I do, you know." He watched her closely. "And you don't think that I--that I am no longer capable of managing my affairs?" She laughed gayly. "What a silly question--_you_ capable--_you_, father, the best brain--the best business executive in Millsburgh. You know that is what everybody says of you. You are just tired, and need a good rest, that is all." The man's drooping shoulders lifted and his face brightened as he said, slowly, "I guess perhaps you are right, daughter." "I am sure of it," she returned, eagerly. Then she added brightly, as if prompted by a sudden inspiration, "I'll tell you what you do--ask the Interpreter." "Ask the Interpreter!" She nodded, smiling as if she had put a puzzling conundrum to him. "You mean for me to ask that paralyzed old basket maker's advice? You mean, ask him if I should retire from business?" Again she nodded with a little laugh; but under her laughter there was a note of earnestness. "And don't you know," he said, "that it is the Interpreter who is at the bottom of all my trouble?" "Father!"