It was late in the evening when Mr. Ridley returned home.  Ethel’s quick ears detected something unusual in his steps as he came along the entry.  Instead of the stumbling or shuffling noise with which he generally made his way up stairs, she noticed that his footfalls were more distinct and rapid.  With partially suspended breath she sat with her eyes upon the door until it was pushed open.  The moment she looked into her father’s face she saw a change.  Something had happened to him.  The heavy, besotted look was gone, the dull eyes were lighted up.  He shut the door behind him quickly and with the manner of one who had been pursued and now felt himself in a place of safety.

“What’s the matter, father dear?” asked Ethel as she started up and laying her hand upon his shoulder looked into his face searchingly.

“Nothing, nothing,” he replied.  But the nervousness of his manner and the restless glancing of his eyes, now here and now there, and the look of fear in them, contradicted his denial.

“What has happened, father?  Are you sick?” inquired Ethel.

“No, dear, nothing has happened.  But I feel a little strange.”

He spoke with unusual tenderness in his manner, and his voice shook and had a mournful cadence.

“Supper is all ready and waiting.  I’ve got something nice and hot for you.  A strong cup of tea will do you good,” said Ethel, trying to speak cheerily.  She had her father at the table in a few minutes.  His hand trembled so in lifting his cup that he spilled some of the contents, but she steadied it for him.  He had better control of himself after drinking the tea, and ate a few mouthfuls, but without apparent relish.

“I’ve got something to tell you,” said Ethel, leaning toward her father as they still sat at the table.  Mr. Ridley saw a new light in his daughter’s face.

“What is it, dear?” he said.

“Mrs. Birtwell was here to-day, and is going—­”

The instant change observed in her father’s manner arrested the sentence on Ethel’s lips.  A dark shadow swept across his face and he became visibly agitated.

“Going to do what?” he inquired, betraying some anger.

“Going to help me all she can.  She was very kind, and wants me to go and see her to-morrow.  I think she’s very good, father.”

Mr. Ridley dropped his eyes from the flushed, excited face of his child.  The frown left his brow.  He seemed to lose himself in thought.  Leaning forward upon the table, he laid his face down upon his folded arms, hiding it from view.

A sad and painful conflict, precipitated by the remark of his daughter, was going on in the mind of this wretched man.  He knew also too well that he was standing on the verge of a dreadful condition from the terrors of which his soul shrunk back in shuddering fear.  All day he had felt the coming signs, and the hope of escape had now left him.  But love for his daughter was rising above all personal fear and dread.  He knew that at any moment the fiend of delirium might spring upon him, and then this tender child would be left alone with him in his awful conflict.  The bare possibility of such a thing made him shudder, and all his thought was now directed toward the means of saving her from being a witness of the appalling scene.