s pushed open. The moment she looked
into her father's face she saw a change. Something had happened to him.
The heavy, besotted look was gone, the dull eyes were lighted up. He
shut the door behind him quickly and with the manner of one who had
been pursued and now felt himself in a place of safety.

"What's the matter, father dear?" asked Ethel as she started up and
laying her hand upon his shoulder looked into his face searchingly.

"Nothing, nothing," he replied. But the nervousness of his manner and
the restless glancing of his eyes, now here and now there, and the look
of fear in them, contradicted his denial.

"What has happened, father? Are you sick?" inquired Ethel.

"No, dear, nothing has happened. But I feel a little strange."

He spoke with unusual tenderness in his manner, and his voice shook and
had a mournful cadence.

"Supper is all ready and waiting. I've got something nice and hot for
you. A strong cup of tea will do you good," said Ethel, trying to speak
cheerily. She had her father at the table in a few minutes. His hand
trembled so in lifting his cup that he spilled some of the contents,
but she steadied it for him. He had better control of himself after
drinking the tea, and ate a few mouthfuls, but without apparent relish.

"I've got something to tell you," said Ethel, leaning toward her father
as they still sat at the table. Mr. Ridley saw a new light in his
daughter's face.

"What is it, dear?" he said.

"Mrs. Birtwell was here to-day, and is going--"

The instant change observed in her father's manner arrested the
sentence on Ethel's lips. A dark shadow swept across his face and he
became visibly agitated.

"Going to do what?" he inquired, betraying some anger.

"Going to help me all she can. She was very kind, and wants me to go
and see her to-morrow. I think she's very good, father."

Mr. Ridley dropped his eyes from the flushed, excited face of his
child. The frown left his brow. He seemed to lose himself in thought.
Leaning forward upon the table, he laid his face down upon his folded
arms, hiding it from view.

A sad and painful conflict, precipitated by the remark of his daughter,
was going on in the mind of this wretched man. He knew also too well
that he was standing on the verge of a dreadful condition from the
terrors of which his soul shrunk back in shuddering fear. All day he
had felt the coming signs, and the hope of escape had now left him. But
love for his daught