her? Why, Brockway! I did not know Emily's mother was alive. Why
not send for her now," I said, looking into his shrunken face. "You need a
woman's care at once."

His grasp tightened on my arm as he half rose from the chair, his eyes
blazing as I had seen them that morning when he cursed the boat's crew.

"But not that woman! Never, while I live!" and he bent down his eyes on
mine. "Look at me. Men sometimes cut you to the quick, and now and then a
woman can leave a scar that never heals; but your own child,--do you
hear?--your little girl, the only one you ever had, the one you laid store
by and loved and dreamed dreams of,--_she can tear your heart out_. That's
what Emily's mother did for me. Oh, a fine gentleman, with his yachts, and
boats, and horses,--a fine young aristocrat! He was a thief, I tell you, a
blackguard, a beast, to steal my girl. Damn him! Damn him! Damn him!" and
he fell back in his chair exhausted.

"Where is she now?" I asked cautiously, trying to change his thoughts. I
was afraid of the result if the outburst continued.

"God knows! Somewhere in the city. She comes here every now and then," in
a weaker voice. "Emily meets her and they go off together when I am out
raking my beds. Not long ago I met her outside on the foot-bridge; she did
not look up; her hair is gray now, and her face is thin and old, and so
sad,--not as it once was. God forgive me,--not as it once was!" He leaned
forward, his face buried in his hands.

Then he staggered to his feet, took the lamp from the table, and brought
me the picture I had seen in Emily's room the night of the storm.

"You can see what she was like. It was taken the year before his death and
came with Emily's clothes. She found it in her box."

I held it to the light. The large, dreamy eyes seemed even more pleading
than when I first had seen the picture; and the smooth hair pushed back
from the high forehead, I now saw, marked all the more clearly the lines
of anxious care which were then beginning to creep over the sweet young
face. It seemed to speak to me in an earnest, pleading way, as if for
help.

"She is your daughter, Brockway, don't forget that."

He made no reply. After a pause, I went on, "And a girl's heart is not her
own. Was it all her fault?"

He pushed his chair back and stood erect, one hand raised above the
other, clutching the blanket around his throat, the end trailing on the
floor. By the flickering light of the dying fire he