"There, there, wife, she's gone," said Adam, clumsily trying to soothe the mother's anguish, but finding that a tongue long accustomed to expressions of haughty pride and bigotry, could but poorly lend itself to softer words of comfort. "There, there, don't cry, let her go. That scoundrel printer is at the bottom of it all. Somehow the girl does not seem to take after the Goodrich's. Madam, please try to control your feelings. You must not make yourself ill over this matter."
Mrs. Goodrich, accustomed to obey, with a great effort, ceased the open expression of her grief.
"There can be no doubt but that she has gone with that tramp," continued
Adam. "I shall do what I can to find her and give her one more chance.
If she acknowledges her fault and promises to do better she may come
home. If not, she shall never darken these doors again."
"Oh, Mr. Goodrich, don't say that," cried the mother. "Think of that poor child on the streets all alone. Perhaps you are mistaken."
"What? Am I to understand that you take her part against me?"
"No, no," murmured the frightened woman.
"I tell you, there can be no mistake. You saw them did you not, Frank?"
"Yes, sir."
"You hear that, Mrs. Goodrich? You will oblige me by not mentioning this matter again." And hurriedly leaving the room, Adam went to his own private apartment, where, after he had turned the key in the door, he paced to and fro, the tears streaming down his cheeks. But in a few moments, while he made his preparations for going down the street, thoughts of the curious faces he must meet aroused the old pride and hardened his heart again. So that when he left the building, not a trace of his worthier feelings showed on his cold, proper countenance, except that to the keen observer, he looked a little older perhaps, and a trifle less self-satisfied.
His first visit was to the store, where he spent an hour or two going over his correspondence, interviewing the head clerk and issuing his orders for the day. Then taking his hat and cane, he left for the printing office.