The rest of the morning I was in a quake, thinking what I had said I would do, and so restless I didn't know how to settle to work. Mother left me pretty much to myself: only I always felt she had her eye upon me, as if I wasn't to be trusted out of sight. Father came in at dinner-time, and I was tongue-tied, as if I couldn't speak a word. Which was nonsense, for of course I could speak. It was want of will, not want of power, that held me back. And I had not prayed for help—at least, not freely and fully. I had the feeling still that I couldn't give up Walter. Dinner was another silent meal. Father helped me, but he didn't talk, nor did mother. He looked so sad and downhearted, and once or twice I heard him give a great sigh. Well, at last he got up to go, and a sort of desperate feeling came over me, that now was the turning-point, and that if I didn't speak then perhaps I never should. Besides, if I didn't keep my promise to Mr. Armstrong, nobody would ever believe me again. And with all this I felt too, so strangely, that I couldn't make myself, but God could make me; and I think I cried out in my heart for help. Oh me! to think what I should have felt, after, if I hadn't said a word! "Father!" I whispered, in a shaky sort of voice. He was near the door, but he heard me, and he turned round, straight. I've often thought since how much that one word means, and how if we're sad or downhearted, or in trouble, or in temptation, it's often enough to cry out, or even just to whisper— "FATHER!" For that means everything, and the answer is sure. I didn't say more. I was half choked, and couldn't. And perhaps there was no need. He seemed to understand in a moment all I meant to say. Quick as possible he came back to where I sat, and took me in his arms, and held me tight—oh, so tight—like as if he was taking me into his heart. And the tears ran down his cheeks, dropping on my face. "Kitty, you'll never do it again—never again!" says he hoarsely. "No, no, I won't," I sobbed. "And you're—sorry?" says he. "O father, I'm so sorry," I got out, clinging to him. I heard him mutter, "Thank God!" and then he broke down, and sobbed too. "There, that won't do," says he, trying hard to get over it. "I must be off to—to the station," says he, while there was another great heave of his chest, which I felt all through me. "Kitty, say that once again; say you'll never—never—" "O no—never!" I sobbed. Then he put me from him, and started to go; and he came back, unexpected, from the door, to catch me in his arms again, and hold me tight to him—a thing he wasn't given to doing commonly. After that he was gone; and I couldn't so much as look at mother. I just rushed away up to my room, and cried there, fit to break my heart.