“Oh, dear! oh, dear! This is a bad business! a bad business!” exclaimed Isaac, when it was over. His moist eyes glowed amidst the general humidity of his face. “How can I advise you? An erring wife is the curse of God. You cannot turn her away without knowledge. Thank God, my Lena.... But there! among my people such lapses are rare. You have no evidence of unfaithfulness?” “No.” “You must be gentle with her, gentle but firm. Point out the error of her ways.” “I am always doing that, Isaac.” “She may get over it—a passing infatuation. Such things happen.” “If it wasn’t for the child!” “Yes, yes, I understand. Oh, dear! oh, dear! very distressing, my friend. If I can be of any assistance—” He thrust out his large hands helplessly. It is the kind of trouble in which no man can help another, and each knew it. Jim hovered by the door. “It’s nice to have some one to—talk to, anyway,” he muttered; then he picked up his cap and shuffled away, calling out: “Old iron! Old iron!” Annie was nine when the climax came. An intelligent, pretty child, with dark hair and quick, impulsive manners. Her passionate preference for her father did not tend to smooth the troubles of the household. She attended the grammar-school and had many girl-friends. She saw very little of her mother. One evening Jim returned home late. He had been on a visit to his friend, Isaac. He found Annie seated on the bottom stair, in her nightdress. Her face was very pale and set, her eyes bright. She had been crying. When she saw her father she gasped: “Daddy!... Oh, Daddy!” He seized her in his arms and whispered: “What is it, my dear?” Then she cried quietly while he held her. He did not attempt to hurry her. At last she got her voice under control and gasped quietly: “I had gone to bed. I don’t know why it was. I got restless in bed. I came down again softly. I peeped into the sitting-room.... Oh, Daddy!” “What? What, my love?” “That man.... That man and—” “Your mother?” “Yes.” “He was—” “He was kissing her and—Oh!” Jim clutched his child and pressed her head against his breast. “I went in.... He _struck_ me.” “What!” “He struck me because I wouldn’t promise not to tell.” “He struck you, eh? He struck you! That man struck you, eh?” “Yes, Daddy.” “Where is he?” “They’re—up there now. I’m frightened.” “Go to bed, my love. Go to bed.” He carried her up the stairs and fondled her, and put her into bed. “It’s all right, my love. Go to sleep. Pleasant dreams. It’s all right. Daddy will look after you.” Then he went downstairs.