Hamilton swung her to his shoulder, and went downstairs. On the way he laughed out loud. The past half-hour tossed itself into the foreground of his mind, clad in the skirts of high comedy. Tragedy fled. The burden in his breast went with it. Far be it from him to cherish a grudge against the sex that so often reduced the trials of public life to insignificance. Women were delicious irresponsible beings; man was an ingrate to take their shortcomings seriously.
"Why do you laugh?" asked his daughter, whose arm nearly strangled him.
"You were very angry when you came into mamma's room."
"Indeed?" said Hamilton, nettled. "Was I not smiling?"
"Yes, sir; but you often smile when you would like to run the carving-knife into somebody."
They had reached the library. Hamilton sat the child on the edge of his table and took a chair closely facing her. "What do you mean, you little witch?" he demanded. "I am always happy when I am at home."
"Almost always. Sometimes you are very angry, and sometimes you are sad.
Why do you pretend? Why don't you tell us?"
"Well," said Hamilton, with some confusion. "I love you all very much, you see, and you do make me happy—why should I worry you?"
"I should feel better if you told me—right out. It gives me a pain here."
She laid her hand to her head, and Hamilton stared at her in deepening perplexity. Another child—anything feminine, at least—would have indicated her heart as the citadel of sorrow. "Why there?" he asked. "Do you mean a pain?"
"Yes, a pain, but not so bad as when I am in Albany or Saratoga and you are here. Then I worry all the time."