"Don't ask me, child. I mustn't look back--I daren't look back. But it seems to me, Lizzie, that I never knew how dreadful a lonely life was until you came and showed me the misery of it. I cannot leave you now, Lizzie; I should become I am frightened to think what." His voice, his hands, his whole body trembled as he pleaded for companionship, for protection from his torturing fancies. She was his shelter, and he clung to her. His manhood had been like a ship tossed amidst storms, overhung by dark clouds, battered and bruised by sunken reefs. Suddenly a rift of light appeared, and the old worn ship floated into peaceful waters, and lay there with an almost painful sense of rest upon it--painful because of the fear that the light might vanish as suddenly as it had appeared, and the storm break again. "What is it you want me to do, daddy?" "To come and live with me, my dear, if I am fortunate enough to get this house, where there will be rest; to share my home, as my daughter." "As your daughter!" (Very, very softly spoken, musingly, wonderingly. The turning over of a new leaf, indeed, for her who had never known a father's love.) "Does _he_ know of this--your friend?" "It was he who suggested it when I spoke of you. He proposed it for my sake." "It is kind of him; he must have a noble nature. But I don't know, daddy, I don't know!" "Don't know what, my dear?" "Whether you would be pleased with me--whether you would be as fond of me as you are now. Ah, you smile, but you might be mistaken in me. I like to have my own way, and I am ill-tempered when I don't. Then, you know, Some One must come and see me." "If you say so, my dear," he humbly assented, "I can't object." "I think he would like it," she mused; "he is fond of nice things and nice places." "Tell me, Lizzie--I have never asked, but I may, because I am an old man--is Some One your sweetheart?" "Couldn't you guess that, daddy?" "Yes, my dear, but I wanted to be certain. Do you love him?" Shyly, tenderly, archly she looked at the old man, and answered him with her eyes. They fell into silence for a little while after that, the mind of each being occupied. "You don't remember your father, Lizzy?" "No." "Your mother?" "No, I never saw her." "Have you any other friends besides Some One?" "Yes, there's Mary, and my best friend, my aunt. She has been very kind to me, and must come and see me too. Indeed, I must ask her permission, for she has been like a mother to me. Mother! ah, to have a good kind mother to love, and who loves you--what happiness! I have dreamt of it often--have wished that such a happiness was mine. But it never was, daddy--never, never was, and never, never can be!" "Lizzie," he said timidly, "tell me something of your life before I knew you."