She went to him then, throwing her young arms around his neck and staying him in his walk. He looked at her, bewildered, and she laid her soft cheek against his in a mute caress. “It doesn’t matter, father!” she whispered; “don’t think of me, don’t add that to your burden.” The old man groaned. “My child,” he exclaimed, his voice quavering with grief, “my poor child, I can never forgive myself!” Tears of sympathy filled her eyes, but she smiled bravely. “Why, father, we have so much--here is the house, the--” “It’s mortgaged,” he said, and sank heavily into his chair. For an instant Rose stood appalled. Unconsciously she glanced about her; in the gathering gloom the dear familiar room, the book-lined walls, the littered table, the old clock, seemed suddenly changed. Between yesterday and to-day, between this morning and to-night was a great gulf fixed. She shivered, a horrible sensation of loss, of unreality, of despair, swept over her young soul and bared it to misery, the poignant, unreasoning misery of youth. Then she saw the bowed white head, the bent shoulders which had borne the heat and burden of the day, and forgot herself. She knelt by his chair and slipped her arms around his neck. “Nothing matters, dear daddy, while we have each other,” she whispered, a little sob in her voice. He put his shaking hand on her head. “My poor child,” he repeated. She raised her head, a soft light in her eyes. “Father, you’ll let me sing now,” she said, “you’ll let me sing--I know I can make a fortune for us both. Mancini told me that with a year in Paris I could be ready. He believes in my voice, father, and you know he has trained two great sopranos.” The judge shook his head sadly. “Child, child, you know how I feel about your singing in public!” “But now, daddy,” she pleaded, “now when it will save me from poverty, and I love it, oh, I love it! May I go, just for six months?” Again the judge shook his head, his lips almost formed “no,” but Rose’s arms tightened around his neck. “Don’t say it, daddy!” she cried, “don’t say it, for then you will not unsay it! Truly, truly I must sing, it is my greatest desire, my happiness, the talent that was given me--surely I mustn’t be the one to fold it in a napkin! Daddy, daddy, say yes.” He sat looking out of the window with unseeing eyes, his lips compressed. The demand struck at his dearest prejudices, his firmest convictions, yet to leave her helpless and poor! In the still room the ticking of the clock sounded with monotonous distinctness; it seemed to jar the silence. Twilight fell fast, the corners were dark, the two faces in the foreground showed white and tense. At last the judge sighed heavily. “I must give in,” he said, with slow reluctance, “in my folly I have wrecked us both; I’m no longer fit to command. You may sing, child, but I hope it will only be in concerts.”