Stott explained that the larger pieces and the trunks would come later by express.  Mrs. Rossmore took him aside while Mrs. Blake joined Shirley and the judge.

“Did you tell Shirley?” asked Mrs. Rossmore.  “How did she take it?”

“She knows everything,” answered Stott, “and takes it very sensibly.  We shall find her of great moral assistance in our coming fight in the Senate,” he added confidently.

Realizing that the judge would like to be left alone with Shirley, Mrs. Rossmore invited Mrs. Blake to go upstairs and see the room she would have, while Stott said he would be glad of a washup.  When they had gone Shirley sidled up to her father in her old familiar way.

“I’ve just been longing to see you, father,” she said.  She turned to get a good look at him and noticing the lines of care which had deepened during her absence she cried:  “Why, how you’ve changed!  I can scarcely believe it’s you.  Say something.  Let me hear the sound of your voice, father.”

The judge tried to smile.

“Why, my dear girl, I—–­”

Shirley threw her arms round his neck.

“Ah, yes, now I know it’s you,” she cried.

“Of course it is, Shirley, my dear girl.  Of course it is.  Who else should it be?”

“Yes, but it isn’t the same,” insisted Shirley.  “There is no ring to your voice.  It sounds hollow and empty, like an echo.  And this place,” she added dolefully, “this awful place—­”

She glanced around at the cracked ceilings, the cheaply papered walls, the shabby furniture, and her heart sank as she realized the extent of their misfortune.  She had come back prepared for the worst, to help win the fight for her father’s honour, but to have to struggle against sordid poverty as well, to endure that humiliation in addition to disgrace—­ah, that was something she had not anticipated!  She changed colour and her voice faltered.  Her father had been closely watching for just such signs and he read her thoughts.

“It’s the best we can afford, Shirley,” he said quietly.  “The blow has been complete.  I will tell you everything.  You shall judge for yourself.  My enemies have done for me at last.”

“Your enemies?” cried Shirley eagerly.  “Tell me who they are so I may go to them.”

“Yes, dear, you shall know everything.  But not now.  You are tired after your journey.  To-morrow sometime Stott and I will explain everything.”

“Very well, father, as you wish,” said Shirley gently.  “After all,” she added in an effort to appear cheerful, “what matter where we live so long as we have each other?”

She drew away to hide her tears and left the room on pretence of inspecting the house.  She looked into the dining-room and kitchen and opened the cupboards, and when she returned there were no visible signs of trouble in her face.

“It’s a cute little house, isn’t it?” she said.  “I’ve always wanted a little place like this—­all to ourselves.  Oh, if you only knew how tired I am of New York and its great ugly houses, its retinue of servants and its domestic and social responsibilities!  We shall be able to live for ourselves now, eh, father?”