The fire of logs blazed on the hearth, the father sat looking at his daughter, who was sewing swiftly, her thoughts fixed upon her work. The clock struck eleven.
"It is late, Anne."
"Yes, father, but I must finish. I have so little time during the day."
"My good child," said Douglas, slowly and fondly.
Anne looked up; his eyes were dim with tears.
"I have done nothing for you, dear," he said, as she dropped her work and knelt by his side. "I have kept you selfishly with me here, and made you a slave to those children."
"My own brothers and my own little sister, father."
"Do you feel so, Anne? Then may God bless you for it! But I should not have kept you here."
"This is our home, papa."
"A poor one."