“I am getting on in that direction. None of us grows younger, but the dead. I suppose a daughter is as blind to her father’s growing old, as he to her advancing womanhood. But we won’t talk of my age. We are welcoming the coming, rather than speeding the going, to-night. You and I, Edna, must realize that we, in a measure, begin life on a new line with each other. We are both grown-up people. When your mother was a little older than you are, I had her portrait painted. She laughed at me and called me extravagant. You see, we were really very poor, and she thought, poor girl, that a portrait of herself was not exactly a necessity. I have thought since that it was the one necessary thing I ever bought. I had it copied, when I got richer, by a noted painter, who did it more as a favour to me than for the money, for painters do not care to copy other men’s work. Curiously enough he made a more striking likeness of her than the original was. Come here, my girl.” Edna sprang to her father’s side and rested her hand lightly on his shoulder. Sartwell turned on the electric light. At the bottom of the desk lay a large portrait of a most beautiful woman. The light shone down on the face, and the fine eyes looked smilingly up at them. “That was your mother, Edna,” said the father, almost in a whisper, speaking with difficulty. The girl was crying softly, trying not to let her father know it. Her hand stole from the shoulder next her to the other, his hand caressed her fair hair. “Poor father!” she said, trying to speak bravely. “How lonely you must have been. I seem to--to understand things--that I didn’t before--as if I had suddenly grown old.” They looked at the picture for some time together in silence, then she said: “Why did you never show me the portrait before?” “Well, my dear, it was here and not at the house, and when you were a small girl, you did not come to the office, you know. Then, you see, your stepmother had the responsibility of bringing you up--and--and--somehow I thought it wouldn’t be giving her a fair chance. The world is rather hard on stepmothers.” He hurriedly closed the desk. “Come, come,” he cried, brusquely, “this won’t do, you know, Edna. But this is what I want to say. I want you to remember--to understand rather--that you and I are, as it were, alone in the world; there is a bond between us in that, as well as in the fact that we are father and daughter. I want you always to feel that I am your best friend, and there must never come any misunderstanding between us.” “There never could, father,” said the girl, solemnly.