Julia--all pins and needles--was presently jerked up into a glare of lights, and tied into the rose-crowned bonnet, and buttoned into the velvet coat again. She had not been covered as she slept, and sneezed and shivered in the cold night air. Emeline walked along briskly, and Julia stumbled beside her. The child was in such an agony of fatigue and chill that every separate step toward bed was dreaded by this time. She fell against her mother, as Emeline tore off shoes and stockings, stretched blundering, blind little arms for her nightgown sleeves, and sank deliciously against her pillows, already more than half asleep. But Emeline sat wide eyed, silent, waiting for George. George did not come home at all that night. On the next afternoon--Sunday afternoon--Julia was playing in the street with two other small girls. Their game was simple. The three huddled into the deep doorway that led to Julia's home, clinging tight to each other, laughing and shouting. Then at a given signal they rushed screaming forth, charged across the street as if pursued by a thousand furies, and took shelter in a similar doorway, next to the saloon across the street. This performance had been repeated, back and forth, perhaps a dozen times, when Julia found her father waylaying her. "Where y' going?" asked Julia, noticing that he carried a hand bag. George sat down on the dirty cement steps that connected his dwelling with the sidewalk, and drew Julia between his knees. "I've got to go away, baby," said he soberly. "And ain't choo going to take me to the Park--_never_?" asked Julia, with a trembling lip. George freed a lock of her hair that had gotten caught in her collar, with clumsy, gentle fingers. "Mama's mad at me, and I'm going away for a while, Babe," said he, clearing his throat. "But you be a good girl, and I'll come take you to the Park some day." Something in the gravity of his tone impressed Julia. "But I don't want you to go away," she said tearfully. George got up hastily. "Come on, walk with Pop to the car," he commanded, and Julia trotted contentedly beside him to Market Street. There she gave him a child's soft, impersonal kiss, staring up at the buildings opposite as she did so. George jumped on a cable car, wedged his bag under his knees as he took a seat on the dummy, and looked back at the little figure that was moving toward the dingy opening of O'Farrell Street, and at the spring sunshine, bright on the child's hair. CHAPTER II