When Ellen and her father were left alone they looked at each other, each with pity for the other.  Andrew laid a tender, trembling hand on the girl’s shoulder.  “Somehow it will all come out right,” he whispered.  “You go to bed and go to sleep, and if Amabel wakes up and makes any trouble you speak to father.”

“Don’t worry about me, father,” returned Ellen.  “It’s you who have the most to worry over.”  Then she added—­for the canker of need of money was eating her soul, too—­“Father, what is going to be done?  You can’t pay all that for poor Aunt Eva.  How much money have you got in the bank?”

“Not much, not much, Ellen,” replied Andrew, with a groan.

“It wouldn’t last very long at eighteen dollars a week?”

“No, no.”

“It doesn’t seem as if you ought to mortgage the house when you and mother are getting older.  Father—­”

“What, Ellen?”

“Nothing,” said Ellen, after a little pause.  It had been on her lips to tell him that she must go to work, then she refrained.  There was something in her father’s face which forbade her doing so.

“Go to bed, Ellen, and get rested,” said Andrew.  Then he rubbed his head against hers with his curious, dog-like method of caress, and kissed her forehead.

“You go to sleep and get rested yourself, father,” said Ellen.

“I guess I won’t undress to-night, but I’ll lay on the lounge,” said Andrew.

“Well, you speak to me if mother wakes up and takes on again.  Maybe I can do something.”

“All right, dear child,” said Andrew, lovingly and wearily.  He had a look as if some mighty wind had passed over him and he were beaten down under it, except for that one single uprearing of love which no tempest could fairly down.

Ellen went up-stairs, and lay down beside poor little Amabel without undressing herself.  The child stirred, but not to awake, when she settled down beside her, and reached over her poor little claw of a hand to the girl, who clasped it fervently, and slipped a protecting arm under the tiny shoulders.  Then the little thing nestled close to Ellen, with a movement of desperate seeking for protection.  “There, there, darling, Ellen will take care of you,” whispered Ellen.  But Amabel did not hear.

Chapter XXXIII

The next afternoon poor Eva Tenny was carried away, and Andrew accompanied the doctor who had her in charge, as being the only available male relative.  As he dressed himself in his Sunday suit, he was aware—­to such pitiful passes had financial straits brought him—­of a certain self-congratulation, that he would not be at home when the dressmaker asked for money that night, and that no one would expect him to go to the bank under such circumstances.  But Andrew, in his petty consideration as to personal benefit from such dire calamity, reckoned without another narrow traveller.  Miss Higgins stopped him as he was going out of the door, looking as if bound to a funeral in his shabby Sunday black, with his solemn, sad face under his well-brushed hat.