"Father," the girl said, twirling the ring on her finger, the light from the lamp flashing a dozen spectra from the facets of the diamond, "Jerome and I are going to be married." The old man made no reply. "Soon," she added, thinking he had not caught the full significance of her words. "Soon," he said, in hollow repetition. But he did not turn his head or move. He had expected it some day, he had even wished it, for in his old-fashioned conservatism he did not like to think of Emily as an old maid, but he had hoped that it would be a day long in coming. Emily raised her eyes and looked at him. His hair seemed whiter, his face suddenly older, he appeared so lonely. As she looked a tear oozed from his eye and slid down his cheek and beard. And then she leaned forward, folded her arms on his knees, pillowed her head upon them, and wept. The old man placed his hand upon her coils of hair, patting them softly. But he was silent. The mood passed, the old man possessed himself, laid his book on the table, and sighed with relief, as if at the end of some painful scene. He grew restless, but the girl held him; drew closer, embraced him passionately at the last, and cried: "But I won't leave you, father, I won't--I won't! It'll be just the same for us--tell me it will!" The old man smiled. "Oh, yes," he said, "that part of it'll be all right. But tell me--what's the rush?" "Why, father, there isn't any rush--only, don't you know how every one's against him just now?" "Humph!" he said, "not if the reports of his meetings is correct, they hain't." "Well, I know; but they tell such stories about him, and this horrible roorback--isn't that what they call it?" "Depends on who you mean by they," he answered. "Well, you know," she said, in the assumption that avoided explanations, "I want to show them that I believe in him, anyway." "That's like you, Em," he said, smiling at her. "It's like your mother, too." She was touched by this. He seldom spoke of her mother. And she drew nearer to him, and ran her fingers fondly through his white hair. "Have you been thinking of her?" she asked, with a tender reverence. "Some--to-night," he said. "She stuck up for me once." And then he was silent again. The girl, with the impatience of youth, tried to coax him away from his sad humor, and assumed a happy tone, though she blinked to keep back her tears. "Oh, it won't be for a long time, really, father--not till fall, not till after election, anyway. And it shan't make any difference, shall it? No, we'll all be so happy together. You and Jerome can play cards in the evening--and it'll be ever so much livelier in this big, empty old house." The old man conceived the picture she imagined for him, but one of his grotesque humors came upon him. "D'ye think Mother Garwood'll like the board?" he asked. "Father!" Emily protested, "you'd joke at a funeral!" XIII