It was her father. What should she say? Nancy’s conscience had touched her from time to time for the way she had let her father drop out of her life ever since that day he had failed her so badly. She did not know if he was acting in London or in the provinces, or if he was not acting anywhere. His name had never been mentioned all these months of touring. On no railway platform had she caught a glimpse of him as two “crowds” passed each other during long Sabbath journeys. He might have been dead. And now here he was in her path. What should she say? “Ask him to leave his address, will you? And say that I will write to him.” If her father dreaded another such a disastrous visit as the one she paid him four years ago, he need not leave his address. If, however, he did leave it she would have time to ponder what response to make. Michael O’Finn did not call again at the stage-door of the Athenæum, but two or three days after this his daughter received a letter from him at the theatre. 544 Camberwell Road, S. E. 2:30 P.M. Sunday, April 17, 1899. My beloved daughter, How many times since last we met have I picked up my pen, how many times have I laid it down again with a groan of paternal despair! That you had reason to complain of me I will not deny. My head is bowed before your just and natural ire. But the sight of your name—your dear, dear name—although you share the second portion of it with that least worthy of God’s creatures, your wretched father—the sight of your name, I repeat, in the cast of _Cœur de Lion_ watered with hope the withered plant that in happier days and in the glory of his blossoming prime gave that tender shoot to the world, which is your sweet self.