Something in the expression of her father’s face struck her. She was only thirteen, but an older intuition from her coming womanhood made her say impulsively, with all her heart, “Father, you love it so ... why don’t _you_ ... didn’t you ever try to write poetry, too?” To her confusion, a slow, deep flush mounted all over her father’s face. He looked down at the book in silence. Helen was as horrified as if she had flung open the door of a secret sanctuary in a temple. She jumped up from the sofa, and not understanding her father, nor herself, nor what she was doing, “_Oh, Father, dear,_” she murmured, her arms around his neck. Henry and his puppy looked up at them sleepily. “Is it bedtime?” asked Henry. Helen went to sleep that night, still feeling the great hug Father had given her. She had never felt Father love her so much before. * * * * * Downstairs before he went to bed her father, turning over the pages of a book, was reading, “And nothing to look backward to with pride, And nothing to look forward to with hope.” “Come, come!” he said to himself. “Terence, this is stupid stuff, you eat your victuals fast enough. We’ll have to call this day one of our failures. I’d better get it over with and start another.” His heart was still bleeding to the old wound he had thought healed and forgotten for years, which Helen’s sudden question had torn open. Good Heavens, weren’t you safe from those old buried griefs until you were actually under the sod? And yet mingled with the old bitterness was a new sweetness, Helen’s sympathy, Helen’s understanding. It had never occurred to him before that children could give something as well as take all--the all he was so thankful to give them. Why, he thought wistfully, Helen might be the companion he had never had. He shook his head. No, that would not be fair to her. No dead-hand business! She must find her companions in her own generation. He must be ready to stand aside and let her pass on when the time came. That new sweetness was offered to him only that he might learn to make another renunciation. He looked about him to see if there was anything to be done for the house before he went to bed. “Shall I close that window over there?” he thought to himself. “No, the night is warm. It will give us more air.” He wheeled himself to the closed door of the dining-room, opened it and perceived that the wind was blowing hard from the other direction, for a strong draught instantly sucked past him between the open window back of him and the open window at the head of Stephen’s bed. He felt the gust and saw the long, light curtain curl eddying out towards him over the flicker of Stephen’s bedside candle. It caught in an instant. It flared up like gun-cotton, all over its surface. It came dropping down ... horribly dropping down towards Stephen’s unconscious, upturned face ... flames on that tender flesh! * * * * *