"If there are many more dances, I am afraid--I cannot go through them--I think--I am breaking down, and I must not--I must not! Tell me what to do!" He made a movement so that he stood directly before her and shielded her from the observation of those near them. He realized the danger of the moment. "Look up at me!" he said. "Try to fix your eyes on me steadily. This feeling will pass away directly. You will go soon and you must not break down. Do not let yourself be afraid that you will." She obeyed him like a child, trying to look at him steadily. "Tell me one more dance will be enough," she said, "and say you will dance it with me if you can." "I will," he answered, "and you need not speak a word." When the senator found himself alone in the carriage with her his sense of the triumph achieved found its expression in words. "Well," he said, "I think we have put an end to _that_ story." "Yes," Bertha answered, "they will not say anything more about me. You have saved me from that." She leaned forward and looked out of the window. Carriages blocked the street, and were driving up and driving away; policemen were opening and shutting doors and calling names loudly; a few street-Arabs stood on the pavement and looked with envious eyes at the bright dresses and luxurious wraps of the party passing under the awning; the glare of gas-light fell upon a pretty face upturned to its companions, and a girl's laugh rang out on the night air. Bertha turned away. She looked at Senator Blundel. Her own face had no color. "I think," she said,--"I think I have been to my last ball." "No--no," he answered. "That's nonsense. You will dance at many a one." "I think," she said,--"I think this is the last." Senator Blundel did not accompany her into the house when they reached it. He left her at the door, almost wringing her small cold hand in his stout warm one. "Come!" he said. "You are tired now, and no wonder, but to-morrow you will be better. You want sleep and you must have it. Go in, child, and go to bed. Good-night. God bless you! You will--be better to-morrow." She went through the hall slowly, intending to go to her room, but when she reached the parlor she saw that it was lighted. She had given orders that the servants should not sit up for her, and the house was silent with the stillness of sleep. She turned at the parlor door and looked in. A fire still burned in the grate, her own chair was drawn up before it, and in the chair sat a figure, the sight of which caused her to start forward with an exclamation,--a tall, slender, old figure, his gray head bowed upon his hand. "Papa!" she cried. "Can it be you, papa? What has happened?" He rose rather slowly, and looked at her; it was evident that he had been plunged in deep thought; his eyes were heavy, and he looked aged and worn. He put out his hand, took hers, and drew her to him. "My dear," he said. "My dear child!" She stood quite still for a moment, looking up at him.