“It always is. I should know that by this time without asking. Some men make business their god, although it will prove a god of clay to call upon when the end comes. There is such a thing as duty as well as business, and a man should have some little thought for his wife and his home.” This statement seemed so incontrovertible that Sartwell made no effort to combat it. He sat there with his head thrown back, his eyes closed, and his hands clasped supporting his knee. This attitude Mrs. Sartwell always regarded as the last refuge of the scoffer--an attitude he would be called upon to account for, as a sinner must account for evil deeds. “Father has had more than usual to worry him at the office to-day,” said Edna. She stood by the table, having removed her hat and gloves. A look of mild surprise came over Mrs. Sart-well’s face. She turned her head slowly around, and coldly scrutinized her step-daughter from head to foot. She apparently became aware of her presence for the first time, which may be explained by the fact that the young woman entered the room behind her father. “Edna,” said Mrs. Sartwell, “how often have I told you not to put your hat and gloves on the diningroom table? There is a place for everything. I am sure that when you visit your father’s office, which you are so fond of doing, you find everything in its place, for he is at least methodical. You certainly do not take your disorderly habits from him, and everybody, except perhaps your father and yourself, admits that you live in an orderly household. How did you get that stain on your frock?” Edna looked quickly down at her skirt; the hansom wheel had, alas! left its mark. Two-and-six an hour does not represent all the iniquities of a hansom on a muddy day. “You are my despair, Edna, with your carelessness, and no one knows how it hurts me to say so. That frock you have had on only----” “Edna,” cried her father, peremptorily, “are you hungry?” “No, father.” “Sure?” “Quite sure. I am not in the least hungry.” “Then go to bed.” Edna came around the table to where her stepmother sat and kissed her on the cheek. “Good-night,” she said. “Good-night, my poor child,” murmured Mrs. Sartwell, with a sigh. The girl kissed her father, whispering as she did so, “I’m afraid I’m your little girl again by the way you order me off to bed.” “You will always be my little girl to me, my dear,” he said. “Good-night.” Mrs. Sartwell sighed again as Edna closed the door. “I suppose,” she said, “you think it fair to me to speak in whispers to Edna when I am in the room, or you wouldn’t do it. How you can expect the child to have any respect for me when you allow her to whisper----” “Is there anything to eat in the house?” “You know there is always something to eat in the house.” “Then will you ring, or shall I?” “You can’t expect servants to sit up all night----” “Very well; give me the keys and I will get something for myself.”