They had reached the quiet street in which John’s rooms were, when Susie was suddenly roused out of this heavenly state by the sight of some one coming hastily out of her brother’s door. They were still at a sufficient distance to see that he came out half-running, as if pursued, and that he looked round him with alarm as he came towards them, stumbling a little with uncertain steps. Something perhaps it was in this somewhat wavering movement which roused old recollections in her mind--and her father, but for that temporary lapse into personal blessedness, had been very much in the foreground of her imagination. She let go Mr. Cattley’s arm with a shock of sudden awakening, with a cry of ‘Papa!’ She recognised him in a moment. He was in reality very little changed, far less changed than she was, the austerity of his prison life having preserved the freshness of early years in his face. ‘Papa,’ she said, and stopped and reddened with sudden emotion, ashamed to look at him who she thought must stand abashed before her, and for the first time fully apprehending this tragedy, which no one could smooth away. ‘Eh!’ he cried, and gave her a hurried look. ‘I am in a great hurry. I can’t speak to you now:’ then he stopped reluctantly, for the first time realising what she had said. No, it was not shame; he was not afraid of meeting her eye: but a look of curiosity and interest came into his face. ‘What’s that you are calling me? Do you know me? Who are you? Are you----? is this Susie?’ he said. ‘Oh, yes, papa, it is Susie. Don’t go away. We were coming to look for you, to ask--don’t go away from us. You are not at all changed,’ she said, putting out her hands to detain him, ‘you are just the same. Papa, oh, where are you going? Don’t go away.’ ‘You think so? Not changed! I might be--for you are changed, Susie, and so is the world; everything’s changed. Don’t stop me, I must go; your brother, if that is your brother--and if you are Susie----’ ‘Have you seen John, papa?’ ‘John,’ he repeated, with a half smile; and, though he had been in such haste, he stopped now at once with every appearance of leisure. ‘He may be John, but he’s not Johnnie, my little boy. He’s like a policeman,’ he went on, in a tone of whimsical complaint, rubbing his arm where John had grasped him; ‘he clutches in the same way. My little chap would never have behaved like that. And so you’re Susie? I see some likeness now. You were your mother’s pet, and the boy was mine. Ah! well, it comes to the same thing in the end. You’re both of you ashamed of me now.’ ‘Oh, papa,’ cried Susie, with tears, ‘don’t say so; don’t think so! John----’ ‘Yes, I know: he wants to get hold of me, to keep me in some family dungeon where I can’t shame him. I know that’s what he wants. No, child, I’m going away. Do I want to disgrace you? I’ll go, and you shall never hear of me more.’