"He didn't think that way," she replied at last.
"Yes. Yes, he thought that way."
"What do you mean, child?"
"He left me." The words seemed wrenched from the depths of grief.
Again Miss Barry's conscience objected to making the sweeping contradiction for which the occasion called.
"How could he help that?" she asked at last, gently.
"He couldn't help it, but perhaps I could have helped it," came the weary answer. "If I had been more to him—filled a larger place in his life—been a companion instead of just his pet—"
Miss Barry felt coerced to extend meager comfort. "But your school, Linda. I know your time was all taken up."
"Yes, because I let it be. I've wasted four years when I was old enough to have been a companion to Father."
"Why, you had visits with him once a week. Supposing you had gone East to college."