"But of course," she added wearily, "it's much more complex than that. A school is nothing nowadays--just by itself alone, I mean--it's only a part of a city's life--which for most tenement children is either very dull and hard, or cheap and false and overexciting. And behind all that lie the reasons for that. And there are so many reasons." She stared straight past her father as though at something far away. Then she seemed to recall herself: "But I'm talking too much of my family." Roger carefully lit a cigar: "I don't think you are, my dear. I'd like to hear more about it." She smiled: "To keep my mind off Joe, you mean." "And mine, too," he answered. They had a long talk that evening about her hope of making her school what Roger visaged confusedly as a kind of mammoth home, the center of a neighborhood, of one prodigious family. At times when the clock on the mantle struck the hour loud and clear, there would fall a sudden silence, as both thought of what was to happen at dawn. But quickly Roger would question again and Deborah would talk steadily on. It was after midnight when she stopped. "You've been good to me to-night, dearie," she said. "Let's go to bed now, shall we?" "Very well," he answered. He looked at his daughter anxiously. She no longer seemed to him mature. He could feel what heavy discouragements, what problems she was facing in the dark mysterious tenement world which she had chosen to make her own. And compared to these she seemed a mere girl, a child groping its way, just making a start. And so he added wistfully, "I wish I could be of more help to you." She looked up at him for a moment. "Do you know why you are such a help?" she said. "It's because you have never grown old--because you've never allowed yourself to grow absolutely certain about anything in life." A smile half sad and half perplexed came on her father's heavy face. "You consider that a strong point?" he asked. "I do," she replied, "compared to being a bundle of creeds and prejudices." "Oh, I've got prejudices enough." "Yes," she said. "And so have I. But we're not even sure of _them_, these days." "The world has a habit of crowding in," her father muttered vaguely. * * * * *