"The very mention of his name must be a pain to her; can she not be spared it?"
"I will consider that question. You know I would not willingly pain her," he said, with a tenderly affectionate glance at his daughter as she re-entered the room; then rising he paced the floor, as was his habit when engaged in deep or perplexing thought.
Elsie watched him a little anxiously, but without remark until all the others had retired, leaving her alone with him and Rose.
Then going to him where he sat, in a large easy chair beside the table, looking over the evening paper, "Papa," she said, laying her hand affectionately on his arm, "I fear you are finding my affairs troublesome."
"No, my dear child, not at all," he answered, throwing down the paper and drawing her to a seat upon his knee.
"It seems quite like old, old times," she said with a smile, gazing lovingly into his eyes, then stealing an arm about his neck and laying her cheek to his.
"Yes," he said, fondling her; "why should I not have you here as I used to twenty odd years ago? You are no larger or heavier nor I a whit less strong and vigorous than we were then."
"How thankful I am for that last," she returned, softly stroking his face, "and it is very pleasant occasionally to imagine myself your own little girl again. But something is giving you anxiety, my dear father. Is it anything in which I can assist you?"
"Yes; but I fear I can hardly explain without calling up painful memories."
He felt her start slightly, and a low-breathed sigh met his ear.