“You’ve been good to me to-night, dearie,” she said.  “Let’s go to bed now, shall we?”

“Very well,” he answered.  He looked at his daughter anxiously.  She no longer seemed to him mature.  He could feel what heavy discouragements, what problems she was facing in the dark mysterious tenement world which she had chosen to make her own.  And compared to these she seemed a mere girl, a child groping its way, just making a start.  And so he added wistfully, “I wish I could be of more help to you.”  She looked up at him for a moment.

“Do you know why you are such a help?” she said.  “It’s because you have never grown old—­because you’ve never allowed yourself to grow absolutely certain about anything in life.”  A smile half sad and half perplexed came on her father’s heavy face.

“You consider that a strong point?” he asked.

“I do,” she replied, “compared to being a bundle of creeds and prejudices.”

“Oh, I’ve got prejudices enough.”

“Yes,” she said.  “And so have I. But we’re not even sure of them, these days.”

“The world has a habit of crowding in,” her father muttered vaguely.

* * * * *

Roger did not sleep that night.  He could not keep his thoughts away from what was going to happen at dawn.  Yes, the city was crowding in upon this quiet house of his.  Dimly he could recollect, in the genial years of long ago, just glancing casually now and then at some small and unobtrusive notice in his evening paper:  “Execution at Sing Sing.”  It had been so remote to him.  But here it was smashing into his house, through the life his own daughter was leading day and night among the poor!  Each time he thought of that lad in a cell, again a chill crept over him!  But savagely he shook it off, and by a strong effort of his will he turned his thoughts to the things she had told him about her school.  Yes, in her main idea she was right.  He had no use for wild reforms, but here was something solid, a good education for every child.  More than once, while she had talked, something very deep in Roger had leaped up in swift response.

For Deborah, too, was a part of himself.  He, too, had had his feeling for humanity in the large.  For years he had run a boys’ club at a little mission school in which his wife had been interested, and on Christmas Eve he had formed the habit of gathering up a dozen small urchins right off the street and taking them ’round and fitting them out with good warm winter clothing, after which he had gone home to help Judith trim the Christmas tree and fill their children’s stockings.  And later, when she had gone to bed, invariably he had taken “The Christmas Carol” from its shelf and had settled down with a glow of almost luxurious brotherhood.  There was sentiment in Roger Gale, and as he read of “Tiny Tim” his deepset eyes would glisten with tears.

And now here was Deborah fulfilling a part of him in herself.  “You will live on in our children’s lives.”  But this was going much too far!  She was letting herself be swallowed up completely by this work of hers!  It was all very well for the past ten years, but she was getting on in age!  High time to marry and settle down!