r must go into storage and you may see it
again, some time, and you may not."

"Are we going away?" she inquired, hoping it might be true.

"We are. We're going a long way, my girl. Do you care?"

"Of course," said she, amazed at the question, for he had never
considered her in the least. "I'm glad. I don't like your studio."

He laughed, and the laugh shocked her. She could not remember ever to
have heard Jason Jones laugh before.

"I don't like the place, either, girl, and that's why I'm leaving it.
For good, this time. I was a fool to return here. In trying to
economise, I proved extravagant."

Alora did not reply to that. She was eager to begin packing and hurried
through her breakfast. All the things she might need on a journey she
put into one trunk. She was not quite sure what she ought to take, and
her father was still more ignorant concerning a little girl's wardrobe,
but finally both trunks were packed and locked and then Mr. Jones
called a wagon and carted away the extra trunk of Alora's and several
boxes of his own to be deposited in a storage warehouse.

She sat in the bare studio and waited for his return. The monotony of
the past weeks, which had grown oppressive, was about to end and for
this she was very grateful. For from a life of luxury the child had
been dumped into a gloomy studio in the heart of a big, bustling city
that was all unknown to her and where she had not a single friend or
acquaintance. Her only companion had been a strange man who happened to
be her father but displayed no affection for her, no spark of interest
in her happiness or even comforts. For the first time in her life she
lacked a maid to dress her and keep her clothes in order; there was no
one to attend to her education, no one to amuse her, no one with whom
to counsel in any difficulty. She had been somewhat afraid of her
peculiar father and her natural reserve, derived from her mother, had
deepened in his society. Yesterday and this morning he had seemed more
human, more companionable, yet Alora felt that it was due to a selfish
elation and recognized a gulf between them that might never be bridged.
Her father differed utterly from her mother in breeding, in
intelligence, in sympathy. He was not of the same world; even the child
could realize that. And yet, he was her father--all she had left to
depend upon, to cling to. She wondered if he really possessed the good
qualities her mother had attributed to him. If so,