It occurred to her that she had often left him alone,—poor old father! It occurred to her, also, that she understood now what it was to be alone. Had she forgotten him in these two comforted, companioned years?
She came in weakly, and looked about.
"Dick's in, and gone to bed," said the old man, answering her look.
"You're tired, Senath."
"I am tired, father."
She sunk upon the floor,—the heat of the room made her a little faint,—and laid her head upon his knee; oddly enough, she noticed that the patch on it had given way,—wondered how many days it had been so,—whether he had felt ragged and neglected while she was busy about that blue neck-tie for Dick. She put her hand up and smoothed the corners of the rent.
"You shall be mended up to-morrow, poor father!"
He smiled, pleased like a child to be remembered. She looked up at him,—at his gray hair and shrivelled face, at his blackened hands and bent shoulders, and dusty, ill-kept coat. What would it be like, if the days brought her nothing but him?
"Something's the matter with my little gal? Tell father, can't ye?"
Her face flushed hot, as if she had done him wrong. She crept up into his arms, and put her hands behind his rough old neck.
"Would you kiss me, father? You don't think I'm too ugly to kiss, maybe,—you?"