"I have heard the news, Dad," I said.
"Well, and isn't it just rippin'?" he said. "Don't you congratulate me—I, a poor beggar—to get a wife like that, and you—a mother like that!"
"She will never be my mother, father, if you marry her a hundred times."
"Come, come, that is so bourgeoise, that kind of speech is so completely out of date; but Helen will explain to you. Now, what is it you want, little Heather? I'm sure Helen has spent enough money on your little person to satisfy you for one morning."
"Was it her own money she spent?" I asked.
"Gracious, child!" cried my father. "What other money could she spend?"
"Why, yours—I thought it was yours," I said, with a sob.
"Mine!" he said. "I haven't a stiver in the world to bless myself with. But there, I am a rich man for all that. Helen is rich, and what is hers is mine, and she's going to do the right thing by you, Heather—the right thing by you."
"Daddy," I said, very slowly, "I waited for you during all the years while I was growing up, and yesterday I found you again—or rather, I ought to say a few days ago, when you came to see me at Hill View, and now again I have lost you."
"Bourgeoise, bourgeoise," muttered my father; "those words are Penelope's words. She'd be sure to speak to you like that."