His scorn of self was written, now, so plainly on his face, in such fierce lines of deep contempt and loathing, that, as she looked at him, it frightened her. She, also, rose and lightly clasped her arms about his neck in an appeal.
"There, all the week," he went on with less virulence, "you have, as her companion, the happy life I wish for you, Ah, your old father does not grudge you that, my liebschen! And, after all, you do not falter in your love. My poverty does not make you forget me—eh?"
"Forget you, father? These hours are pleasantest of all! These hours with you here in these rooms which you say are 'poor' are far, far pleasanter to me than any hours at Mrs. Vanderlyn's."
"Ah, so," said he. "Yes, you come back to me and we are happy—very happy. It is my good luck—much better than I really deserve. Come, now, come. A little cake, a little wine, in honor of your visit. M'riar, M'riar—where have you gone, M'riar?"
From the other room the slavey came with reddened eyes.
"'Ere, sir; 'ere Miss." She was snuffling.
"Why, M'riar," said Kreutzer, in dismay! "What is it? Why weep you?"
"Ho, it allus mykes me snivel w'en I sees you two together, that w'y. Hi cawn't stand it. 'Ow you love! It mykes me 'ungry. Yuss, fair 'ungry. Nobody ain't hever loved me none—it mykes me 'ungry."
Quick with remorse and sympathy Anna pounced upon her and enfolded her in a great hug, realizing, for the first time, that, on entering, she had been too anxious to show her affection for her father, too full of worry over what she had, that day, to tell him, to remember M'riar.
"Dear M'riarrr!" she said softly. "Dear M'riarrr! We love you. Don't we father—love her?"