"But I know about him. Mother has told me, you see. So I know just how fine and noble and splendid he was, and—"
"Fine—he—was?" The words, as they fell from Burke Denby's dry lips were barely audible.
"Oh, yes. You see, all the way, ever since I could remember, daddy has been held up to me as so fine and splendid. Why, I learned to hold my fork—and my temper!—the way daddy would want me to. And there wasn't a song or a sunset or a beautiful picture that I wasn't told how daddy would have loved it. Mother was always talking of him, and telling me about him; so I feel that I know him, just as if he were alive."
"As—if—he—were—alive!" Burke Denby half started from his chair, his face a battle-ground for contending emotions.
"Yes. But he isn't, you see. He died many, many years ago."
There was the sudden tinkling of shattered glass on a polished floor.
"Oh, Mr. Denby!" exclaimed Betty in consternation. "Your beautiful vase!"
The man, however, did not even glance at the ruin at his feet. Still, he must have realized what he had done, thought Betty, for, as he crossed to his desk and sat down heavily, she heard him mutter:—
"To think I could have been—such a fool!"