With an instinctive military salute the secretary hurried to execute the order.
When Dr. Woodman returned home that night from one of his endless tramps among the poor, Harriet opened the door.
Something about the expression of his face startled her. For the first time in her life she saw in its gaunt lines the shadow of despair. He had aged rapidly of late, but the sunlight had never before quite faded from his eyes.
"What is it, Papa dear?" she asked tenderly, slipping an arm about his neck as she drew him down into his favourite chair.
"What, child?" he responded vaguely.
"You look utterly worn out. Tell me what's the matter. I'm no longer a child. I'm a woman now—strong and well and brave. Let me help you."
"You do help me, baby!" he laughed with an effort at his old-time joyous spirit. "Every time I touch your little hand, you give me new life. Every note from your sweet voice thrills me with new hope. And I dream dreams and build castles and plan for to-morrow as if I were a boy. What more can a woman do? What more did God mean for a beautiful daughter to do for her old father?"
"Well, I want to do more, I want to share your troubles and help you carry your burdens."
"And so you shall, my dear. Some day your voice will thrill thousands as it now thrills my heart. You'll win fame and wealth for your father. You shall care for him in old age. And his pride and joy shall be to say to those he meets—'the great singer, yes, my daughter, sir—my little baby!'"