“I never squabble, Edna. Neither do I ever use such an undignified word. Where you got it, I’m sure I do not know, but it was not from me. If you wish your father not to be troubled, then you should act so that it would not be necessary to appeal to him. It is no wish of mine to add to his cares,--far otherwise. Are you ready to obey me now?” “Yes.” The girl rose and went rather uncertainly to the door, her eyes filled with tears. “You have not kissed me good-night, Edna.” She kissed her step-mother on the cheek and went to her room, flinging herself, dressed as she was, on her bed, sobbing. Yet she listened for that step on the gravel which did not come. At last she rose, arranged her hair for the night, and bathed her face, so that her father, if he came home and saw her, should not know she had been crying. Wrapping herself in her dressing-gown, she sat by the window and listened intently and anxiously. It was after midnight when the last train came in, and some minutes later her quick ear heard the long-expected step far down the street; but it was not the quick, nervous tread she was accustomed to. It was the step of a tired man. She thought of softly calling to him from the window, but did not. Holding her door ajar, she heard the murmur of her step-mother’s voice and occasionally the shorter, gruffer note of her father’s evidently monosyllabic replies. After what seemed an interminable time, her stepmother came up alone, and the door of her room closed. Edna, holding her breath, slipped noiselessly out of her room and down the stairs. The steps were kind to her, and did not creak. She opened the door of the dining-room, and appeared as silently as if she were a ghost. Her father started from his chair, and it required all his habitual self-command to repress the exclamation that rose to his lips. “Heaven help us, my dearest girl; do you want to frighten your old father out of what little wits he has left him?” he whispered.. “Why aren’t you asleep?” She gently closed the door, then ran to him, and threw her arms about his neck. “Oh, father, are you safe? You are not hurt?” “Hurt! Why, what would hurt me, you silly baby?” He ruffled her hair, pulling it over her eyes. “You’ve been dreaming; I believe you are talking in your sleep now. Why are you not in bed?” “I couldn’t sleep till you came home. What kept you so late, father?” “Now this is more than the law requires of a man. Have I to make explanations to two women every night I come home by the late train?” The girl sat down on a hassock, and laid her head on her father’s knee, he smoothing her hair caressingly. “What is all this pother about, Edna? Why are you so anxious at my being out late?” “I was afraid you were in danger; I read what was said in the paper about your defying the men, and--and----” Sartwell laughed quietly.