"Are you leaving us, Lydia?" the husband said when he became aware of her intention. "I will not go if you wish me to stay, William." "No, no. Go, and get some sleep." Then, as for a moment she stood, hesitating at the door, longing to escape from that sad presence, yet miserable to go: "Do the best you can for my poor wife," Day said to his friend. "She has been a good wife to me." She had lived with him for twenty years, and had, perhaps, never heard a word of praise from him before. When at last it came it was too much for her to bear, and she went, sobbing loudly, from the room. An hour later when the unhappy master of the house had for the last time attended his friend to the hall-door, watched him down the steps into the quiet street, given a silent nod to the other's silent gesture of farewell as he turned to walk down the echoing pavement; when he had put out the gas in the sitting-room and hall, and dragged himself--who can divine with what heaviness of heart?--heavily up the stairs, he came upon a little white night-gowned figure, watching for him on the landing, outside his bedroom door. It was Deleah who had waited for him there. "It is only I, papa," she said when he stopped short at sight of her. "Only your little Deleah that I--I--loves you so." "Be off to bed, this instant," he said, and pointed an angry finger in the direction of her room. But she put her arms about his neck and clung to him with stifled sobbing, till with the choke of his own sobbing she felt his great chest heave beneath her clinging form. When he had flung himself upon the bed beside his wife he was choking and sobbing still, in a fashion dreadful to hear. "William!" she said timidly, and put a shaking hand upon his shoulder. "Is there anything I can do or say that can help you, William?" He did not answer her, but the bed shook with his rending sobs; and she lay and sobbed beside him. When at length such calm as comes from exhaustion fell: "I did it for you and the children," he said. "I thought, with luck, I could have put it right. But it was for all of you I did it. You will remember that?" "I will remember it while I live," she said. "You may be quite sure that neither your children nor I will ever forget." "Deleah upset me. She should have been in bed"--it was so he excused his tears to her--"I should not have broken down like this if she had not unmanned me. The child should have gone to bed." She heard him swallow down his tears, and then he began again: "Deleah and Franky have always been--have always been--" "The dearest," she supplied, understanding him. "The dearest of your children, William?" "Tell them that--after to-morrow, will you?" She promised. "Bessie and Bernard have not such winning ways, perhaps, but they love you, William, I am sure."