ucking. She laid herself down upon her bed, exhausted, and
again sleep came to her. And in a moment the sound of running water was
in her ears.

CHAPTER XI

SYLVIA'S FATHER MAKES A MISTAKE

Sylvia did not wake again until the maid brought in her tea and told her
that it was eight o'clock. When she went down-stairs, her father was
already in the dining-room. She scanned him closely, but his face bore no
sign whatever of a late and tempestuous night; and a great relief
enheartened her. He met her with an open smile.

"Did you sleep well, Sylvia?"

"Not very well, father," she answered, as she watched his face. "I woke
up in the early morning."

But nothing could have been more easy or natural than his comment on
her words.

"Yet you look like a good sleeper. A strange house, I suppose, Sylvia."

"Voices in the strange house," she answered.

"Voices?"

Garratt Skinner's face darkened.

"Did those fellows stay so late?" he asked with annoyance. "What time was
it when they woke you up, Sylvia?"

"A little before five."

Garratt Skinner's annoyance increased.

"That's too bad," he cried. "I left them and went to bed. But they
promised me faithfully only to stay another half-hour. I am very sorry,
Sylvia." And as she poured out the tea, he continued: "I will speak
pretty sharply to Barstow. It's altogether too bad."

Garratt Skinner breakfasted with an eye on the clock, and as soon as the
hands pointed to five minutes to nine, he rose from the table.

"I must be off--business, my dear." He came round the table to her and
gently laid a hand upon her shoulder. "It makes a great difference,
Sylvia, to have a daughter, fresh and young and pretty, sitting opposite
to me at the breakfast table--a very great difference. I shall cut work
early to-day on account of it; I'll come home and fetch you, and we'll go
out and lunch somewhere together."

He spoke with every sign of genuine feeling; and Sylvia, looking up into
his face, was moved by what he said. He smiled down at her, with her own
winning smile; he looked her in the face with her own frankness, her own
good humor.

"I have been a lonely man for a good many years, Sylvia," he said, "too
lonely. I am glad the years have come to an end"; and this time he did
what yesterday night he had checked himself from doing. He stooped down
and kissed her on the forehead. Then he went from the room, took his hat,
and letting himself out of the house closed the