“Dadsie!” she said, and the voice was the voice of the child Maisie who had so often looked up from his knee with just that irresistible smile which had brought strange tears to his eyes then as it did now—sudden tears he could not quite keep back. “Dadsie!” she said once more and her tone went straight to his heart. “You do love your little Maisie, don’t you? And you want to make her happy—all her life you have wanted to make her happy and you’re going to make her happy now. You are going to give her Jim, her man—like you are Mother’s man—a chance to make good. You are going to give us both a chance to make good together—like you and Mother have made good together. You are still going to be Maisie’s dear, good, kind, generous father whom she will always love—aren’t you, Dadsie?”
The young man stood up.
“Sir,” he said, “I’ve lost my father. And if I could choose another one—I should like it to be you!”
The older man warmed suddenly at the unmistakable sincerity of his tone. He was a good lad, after all—very like himself, he thought—twenty years ago!
“Dadsie!” implored Maisie, her arms still about him. “Dadsie!—Say yes!—Just think it’s Mother and you starting for the first time!”
Something broke down in him—almost the barrier against unmanliness. He blew his nose quickly and his smile had a twist in it as he looked into Maisie’s eyes.
“That’s not fair!” he said. “But you’ve won. You shall have your chance.—You can start to-morrow, young man, but, mind—to work!” He stood up, went to the door.
“Betty!” he called as he opened it.
She stood there—smiling at him. He guessed suddenly that she had been there all the while.
“Well?” she said, her eyes happy.