"You and me. Father Davy--you understand, dear; don't make me put it into words!" Her father's arm came about her and she buried her face in his thin shoulder. "Thank God!" he said fervently, under his breath. "Thank the good God, who knows what we need and gives it to us." After a minute's silence: "But we can't go, Father Davy." "Can't we? I could not, of course, but you----" "I couldn't go without you--to his house. And--we haven't any money." "No money? Is it so bad as that?" "And if we had--I'm not sure that I want to take a journey to a man--so that----" "Let me see the telegram, my dear," requested Mr. Warne. When he had read it he regarded his daughter with a curious little smile. She was sitting upon the floor, close beside his couch, her brilliant eyes now raised to his face, now veiled by their heavy lashes. "It seems clear enough," he said. "Concessions must be made to a man who belongs to the people as he does. I don't think it would be a sacrifice to your dignity, daughter, if you were to go." "But, Father, darling, don't you see? I didn't want to tell you, but there was no other way. We have quite enough to live on--without extras--till the next rug money comes. But that may not be for a month; they are always slow. And for us to go to New York--well, we could just about get there. We couldn't get clear home. Father Davy, I can't go--penniless--_to him_!" He lay looking at her down-bent head with its splendid masses of dark hair, at the beautiful lines of her neck in her low-cut working frock of blue-and-white print, at the shapely young hands gripping each other with unconscious tenseness in her lap. His eyes were like a woman's for understanding, and his lips were very tender. Slowly he raised himself to his feet. "Stay just where you are, daughter," he said, "till I come back." She waited, staring at the old crimson pillow with eyes which saw again the drawing-room in Aunt Olivia's apartment and the profile of Doctor Craig's face as he turned from her at Chester Crofton's interrupting question. That was more than three weeks ago---- Father Davy was gone some little time, but he came back at length at his slow, limping pace, and sat down upon the couch. He held in his hand a little bag of dark blue silk, a little bag whose contents seemed all heavily down in one corner. Georgiana's eyes regarded it with some wonder. She had thought she knew by heart every one of her father's few belongings, but this little bag was new to her. "I think," he said softly, "the time has come for this. It was meant, perhaps, to be given you a little later in your history, but if your mother knew--nay, I feel she does know and approve--she would be the first to say to me: '_Give it to her now, David; she'll never want it more than now._'" Georgiana leaned forward, her lips parted. She seemed hardly to breathe as her father went on, his slender fingers gently caressing the little blue silk bag: