That girl had everything. It wasn't fair. She knew Mr. Dunham well. He was popular, he was admired. He was of Edna Derwent's world. She was doubtless popular and admired. What would they both think of Nat? Nat,—stout, red-faced, not too careful of his hands. Sylvia had often demurred concerning his careless habits. Now she knew that they alone made him impossible. There were many other things that made him impossible, and strangely, they were all points which were the opposite of certain characteristics she had observed in Mr. Dunham during their brief but informal and almost intimate relation. Miss Derwent's speech and pronunciation reminded her sharply of his, and as her thought dwelt upon this enviable girl making ready for her healthful, care-free slumber in the apartment usually sacred to Judge Trent, the burden of Sylvia's vague and helpless future bore down upon her and seemed heavier than she could bear. Long-repressed tears were rising scaldingly to her eyes when she heard a light tap on her door.
It might be she! She shouldn't come in! With a light bound Sylvia was at the door, pressing upon it.
"Who is it?" she demanded in a choked voice.
It was Thinkright's voice that answered her. "Gone to bed, or sitting up, little one?" he asked.
"Well—I'm sitting up—so far," she answered, and she opened the door slowly.
"I thought you might be feeling a little homesick, the first night in a strange place," he went on, "and I wanted to say good-night to you once again."
A great, resentful sob rose in the girl's breast, and with a sudden impulse she flung both her arms around his neck.
"Kiss me," she said chokingly. "You kissed her. How did she dare to kiss you!"
Thinkright drew the speaker out into the corridor as he caressed her cheek. "Come downstairs a few minutes," he said. "We might disturb Edna if we talked up here. Can't have you go to bed thinking wrong," he went on when they had reached the living-room where one tiny lamp still twinkled. "Now sit right down here by me, Sylvia. My heart feels for you. You miss your father, I know, and I wish I could be the comfort to you I'd like to be; but we must all at last find comfort in the great Father of all. We learn little by little that we can't lean on any arm of flesh."
Sylvia bit back her sobs and pressed her eyes. "Poor father is better off," she said. "I wouldn't want him back. He suffered, and he said there wasn't any place for him here any more,—and there isn't for me, there isn't for me!" she added passionately in a voice that shook.