"Any thing else, father?" looking him steadily in the eye.
"No, that's enough," he had thundered; "and I'll tell you, besides, that if you marry him you must lie in the bed you will make. My doors will never open to you again, never."
He met with a will as strong as his own that time. She did marry Harry Church, and went away with him from her father's house. She had written home more than once afterwards, but he had sent the letters all back unopened. He wished, to-day, that he knew what had been in them; whether she had been suffering for any thing. He wondered why he had opposed the marriage so much. Harry Church had been a clerk in his store; faithful, intelligent, industrious, only—poor. In that word lay the head and front of his offending. He, Job Golding, was rich,—had been rich all his lifetime,—but what special thing had riches done for him? He was an old man now, and all alone. "All alone;" he kept saying that over and over, with a sort of vague self-pity.
And all this time a message was on its way to him.
He heard a ring at the door, but he went on with his thoughts, and did not trouble himself about it. Meantime, two persons had been admitted into the hall below; a man and a little girl, eight years old, perhaps. Her companion took off her hood and her warm wrappings, and the child stood there,—a dainty, delicate creature,—her golden curls drooping softly round her face, with its large blue eyes and parted scarlet lips. The housekeeper had come into the hall, and she turned pale as she saw that little face.
"Miss Amy's child," she said to the man, nervously. "It is as much as my place is worth to let her come in here."
"You are Mrs. Osgood, are you not?" said the little girl, looking at her.
"Hear the blessed lamb! Who in this world told you there was a Mrs. Osgood?"
"Mamma. You loved mamma, didn't you? She said you were always so kind to her."