She caught hold of a fold of the roller towel, and turned her beautiful, dripping face to her mother as she did so. "That stew does smell so good," said she. "Where did you say father was?" "I thought we'd just have some bread and milk for dinner, and somethin' hearty to-night, when you came home," said Fanny. "I thought maybe a stew would taste good." "I guess it will," said Ellen, stooping down to kiss Amabel. "Where did you say father was?" "Uncle Andrew has been lyin' down all day most," whispered Amabel. "Isn't he well?" Ellen asked her mother, in quick alarm. "Oh yes, he's well enough." Fanny moved close to the girl with a motion of secrecy. "If I were you I wouldn't say one word about the shop, nor what you did, before father to-night; let him kind of get used to it. Amabel mustn't talk about it, either." "I won't," said Amabel, with a wise air. "You know father had set his heart on somethin' pretty different for you," said Fanny. Fanny hushed her voice as Andrew came out of the dining-room, staggering a little as if the light blinded him. His nervous strength of the morning had passed and left him exhausted. He moved and stood with a downward lope of every muscle, expressing unutterable patience, which had passed beyond rebellion and questioning. He stood before Ellen like some old, spent horse. He was expecting to hear something about the shop--expecting, as it were, a touch on a sore, and he waited for it meekly. Ellen turned her lovely, glowing face towards him. "Father," she said, as if nothing out of the common had happened, "are you going down-town to-night?" Andrew brightened a little. "I can if you want anything, Ellen," he said. "Well, I don't want you to go on purpose, but I do want a book from the library." "I'd just as soon go as not, Ellen," said Andrew. "It'll do him good," whispered Fanny, as she passed Ellen, carrying the dish of stew to the dining-room. "Well, then, I'll give you my card after supper," said Ellen. "Supper is ready now, isn't it, mother? I'm as hungry as a bear." Andrew, when he was seated at the table and was ladling out the stew, had still that air of hopeless and defenceless apology towards life, but he held his head higher, and his frown of patient gloom had relaxed. Then Ellen said something else. "Maybe I can write a book some time," said she. A sudden flash illumined Andrew's face. It was like the visible awakening of hope and ambition. "I don't see why you can't," he said, eagerly. "Maybe she can," said Fanny. "Give her some more of the potatoes, Andrew." "I'll have plenty of time after--evenings," said Ellen. "I guess lots of folks write books that sell, and sell well, that don't have any more talent than you," said Andrew. "Only think how they praised your valedictory." "Well, it can't do any harm to try," said Ellen, "and you could copy it for me, couldn't you, father? Your writing is so fine, it would be as good as a typewriter." "Of course I can," said Andrew.