“If it were not for the child, I would be glad that the end was near.”

“Has she no one to care for her?” I asked.

“Only her mother.  When I am gone, she will come.”

“Her mother?  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 looked like some gaunt spectre towering above me, the blackness of the shadows only intensifying the whiteness of his face.