“You insisted on talking about her. I didn’t want to say anything, but you cross-questioned me till I had to, and now you blame me.” “Very well, let it rest there. Bring me a jug of milk, if you please.” “You are surely not going to drink milk after beer?” “I claim the liberty of a British subject to drink any mortal thing I choose to drink. Don’t let us have an argument about it.” “But you won’t sleep a wink, John, if you do. It’s for your own good I speak.” “Everything is for my own good, Sarah; perhaps that’s what makes me so impatient.” “Well, you know how you are after a bad night.” “Yes, yes. I think I have earned my bad night anyhow. Get the milk or tell me where to get it.” Mrs. Sartwell always rose when her husband offered to help himself from the larder. She placed the jug of milk at his elbow. “I’ve got a number of things to think over,” he said. “I want to be alone.” She stood by the table looking at him. “Good-night, John,” she faltered at last. “Good-night,” he answered. She gazed at him reproachfully in silence, but he did not raise his head, so turning at last with a deep sigh, she left him to his meditations. Sartwell sat there with deep anxiety on his brow. Silence fell on all the house. At last the master roused himself and turned to the table. He buttered two slices of bread and cut a piece of dainty cake, placing them on a plate with a drinking glass. Lighting a candle and turning out the gas, he set to himself the acrobatic feat of carrying plate, jug, and candle. First he softly opened the door and kicked off his slippers. Awkwardly laden, he mounted the stair with the stealthy tread of a burglar, but in spite of his precautions the stairs creaked ominously in the stillness. He noiselessly entered a room, and, placing the difficult load on a table, softly closed the door. When the light shone on the sleeping girl’s face she opened her eyes very wide, then covered them with her hand, laughing a quiet, sleepy little laugh, and buried her face in the white pillow. “H--s--sh,” said her father. Instantly she was wide awake. “I was afraid you were hungry after all,” he whispered. “I wasn’t then, really, but I am now a little.” “That’s good.” He placed a small round gypsy table near the bed and put the plate and jug of milk upon it. “You knew of course when I spoke, that--I merely wanted you to get a long night’s rest. You were tired, you know.” “Oh, I know that, father.” “Then, good-night, my dear; perhaps it was foolish to wake you up, but you will soon drop off asleep again.” “In a minute, and this does look tempting. I just wanted a glass of milk. It’s so good of you, father.” She drew his head down and kissed him. “I hope you’ll sleep well,” she added. “I’ll be sure to.” At the door he stopped; then after a moment, whispered cautiously: “Edna, you’ll take the things down in the morning yourself, quietly. The servants, you know--well, they don’t like extra trouble--sometimes.”