“Barbara,” cried the old man, with sudden passion, “if you ever love a man, never let him doubt you—­always let him be sure.  There is so much in a man’s world that a woman knows nothing of.  When he comes home at night, tired beyond words, and sick to death of the world and its ways, make him sure.  When he thinks himself defeated, make him sure.  When you see him tempted to swerve even the least from the straight path, make him sure.  When the last parting comes, if he is leaving you, give him the certainty to take with him into his narrow house, and make his last sleep sweet.  And if you are the one to go first, and leave him, old and desolate and stricken, oh, Barbara, make him sure then—­make him very sure.”

[Sidenote:  A String of Pearls]

The girl’s hand closed tightly upon his.  He leaned over to pat her cheek and stroke the heavy braids of silken hair.  Then he felt the strand of beads around her neck.

“You have on your mother’s pearls,” he said.  His fine old face illumined as he touched the tawdry trinket.

Barbara swallowed the hard lump in her throat.  “Yes, Daddy.”  They had lived for years upon that single strand of large, perfectly matched pearls which Ambrose North had clasped around his young wife’s neck upon their wedding day.

“Would you like more pearls, dear?  A bracelet, or a ring?”

“No—­these are all I want.”

“I want to give you a diamond ring some day, Barbara.  Your mother’s was buried with her.  It was her engagement ring.”

“Perhaps somebody will give me an engagement ring,” she suggested.

“I shouldn’t wonder.  I don’t want to be selfish, dear.  You are all I have, but, if you loved a man, I wouldn’t try to keep you away from him.”

“Prince Charming hasn’t come yet, Daddy, so cheer up.  I’ll tell you when he does.”

Thus she turned the talk into a happier vein.  They were laughing together like two children when Miriam came in to say that supper was ready.

[Sidenote:  Alone]

Afterward, he sat at the piano, improvising low, sweet chords that echoed back plaintively from the dingy walls.  The music was full of questioning, of pleading, of longing so deep that it was almost prayer.  Barbara finished her letters by the light of the lamp, while Miriam sat in the dining-room alone, asking herself the old, torturing questions, facing her temptation, and bearing the old, terrible hunger of the heart that hurt her like physical pain.

A little before nine o’clock, the blind man came to kiss Barbara good-night.  Then he went upstairs.  Miriam came in and talked a few minutes of quilts, pickles, and lingerie, then she, too, went up to begin her usual restless night.

Left alone, Barbara discovered that she did not care to read.  It was too late to begin work upon the new stock of linen, lawn, and batiste which had come the day before, and she lacked the impulse, in the face of such discouraging prospects as Aunt Miriam had encountered at the hotel.  Barbara steadily refused to admit, even to herself, that she was discouraged, but she found no pleasure in the thought of her work.