“He’s sorry for her, and all that,” they said.

A dead bough shot down the current while she stood there, went over and down, and out of sight, throwing up its little branches like helpless hands.

It fell in with a thought of Asenath’s, perhaps; at any rate she did not like the looks of it, and went home.

Over the bridge, and the canal, and the lighted streets, the falls called after her:  “He’s sorry for her, and all that.”  The curtain was drawn aside when she came home, and she saw her father through the window, sitting alone, with his gray head bent.

It occurred to her that she had often left him alone,—­poor old father!  It occurred to her, also, that she understood now what it was to be alone.  Had she forgotten him in these two comforted, companioned years?

She came in weakly, and looked about.

“Dick’s in, and gone to bed,” said the old man, answering her look.  “You’re tired, Senath.”

“I am tired, father.”

She sunk upon the floor,—­the heat of the room made her a little faint,—­and laid her head upon his knee; oddly enough, she noticed that the patch on it had given way,—­wondered how many days it had been so,—­whether he had felt ragged and neglected while she was busy about that blue neck-tie for Dick.  She put her hand up and smoothed the corners of the rent.

“You shall be mended up to-morrow, poor father!”

He smiled, pleased like a child to be remembered.  She looked up at him,—­at his gray hair and shrivelled face, at his blackened hands and bent shoulders, and dusty, ill-kept coat.  What would it be like, if the days brought her nothing but him?

“Something’s the matter with my little gal?  Tell father, can’t ye?”

Her face flushed hot, as if she had done him wrong.  She crept up into his arms, and put her hands behind his rough old neck.

“Would you kiss me, father?  You don’t think I’m too ugly to kiss, maybe,—­you?”

She felt better after that.  She had not gone to sleep now for many a night unkissed; it had seemed hard at first.

When she had gone half-way up stairs, Dick came to the door of his room on the first floor, and called her.  He held the little kerosene lamp over his head; his face was grave and pale.

“I haven’t said good night, Sene.”

She made no reply.

“Asenath, good night.”

She stayed her steps upon the stairs without turning her head.  Her father had kissed her to-night.  Was not that enough?

“Why, Sene, what’s the matter with you?”

Dick mounted the stairs, and touched his lips to her forehead with a gently compassionate smile.

She fled from him with a cry like the cry of a suffocated creature, shut her door, and locked it with a ringing clang.

“She’s walked too far, and got a little nervous,” said Dick, screwing up his lamp; “poor thing!”