Maria rose.  “Father,” said she, “Annie has gone out, and so has Hannah, and I am going out in the kitchen and make a cup of that thick chocolate that you like, for you.”

“It is too much trouble, dear.”

“Nonsense!” said Maria.  “I would like to do it, and it won’t take a minute.  There is a good fire in the range.”

While Maria was gone, Harry sat gazing out of the window.  He had always now, when he looked out of a window, the sensation of a man who was passing in rapid motion all the old familiar objects, all the landmarks of his life, or rather—­for one never rids one’s self of that particular optical delusion—­it was as if they were passing.  The conviction of one’s own transit is difficult to achieve.  Harry gazed out of the window, and it was to him as if the familiar trees which bordered the sidewalk, the shrubs in the yard, the houses which were within view, were flitting past him in a mad whirl.  He was glad when Maria entered with the chocolate, in his own particular cup, and a dainty plate of cheese sandwiches.

“I thought perhaps you could eat a sandwich, father,” she said.  “I don’t believe you had anything decent for lunch in New York.”

“I didn’t have much,” said Harry.  He did not add, what was the truth, that lately he had been stinting himself on his luncheons in the effort to save a little more of his earnings.  He ate nearly all the sandwiches, and drank two cups of chocolate, and really looked much better.

“You need more nourishment, father,” said Maria, with a wise, maternal air, which was also half accusatory, and which made Harry think so strongly of his first wife that he regarded Maria as he might have regarded her mother.

“You grow more and more like your own mother, dear,” he said.

“Well, I am glad of that,” replied Maria.  “Mother was a good woman.  If I can only be half as good as mother was.”

“Your mother was a good woman,” said Harry, reflectively; and as he spoke he seemed to feel the arms of strong, almost stern, feminity and faithfulness which had encompassed his childlike soul for so many years.  He owned to himself that Maria’s mother had been a much more suitable wife for him than this other woman.  Then he had a little qualm of remorse, for Ida came in sight, richly dressed and elegant, as usual, with Evelyn dancing along beside her.  Mrs. Adams was with her.  Mrs. Adams was talking and Ida was smiling.  It was more becoming to Ida to smile than to talk.  She had discovered long since that she had not so very much to say, and that her smiles were better coin of her little realm; she therefore generally employed them in preference.

Maria got up hastily and took the tray and the chocolate-cups.  “I guess Mrs. Adams is coming in,” said she.

“You didn’t make enough chocolate to give them?” Harry said, hesitatingly.