“Father,” she said, as if nothing out of the common had happened, “are you going down-town to-night?”
Andrew brightened a little. “I can if you want anything, Ellen,” he said.
“Well, I don't want you to go on purpose, but I do want a book from the library.”
“I'd just as soon go as not, Ellen,” said Andrew.
“It'll do him good,” whispered Fanny, as she passed Ellen, carrying the dish of stew to the dining-room.
“Well, then, I'll give you my card after supper,” said Ellen. “Supper is ready now, isn't it, mother? I'm as hungry as a bear.”
Andrew, when he was seated at the table and was ladling out the stew, had still that air of hopeless and defenceless apology towards life, but he held his head higher, and his frown of patient gloom had relaxed.
Then Ellen said something else. “Maybe I can write a book some time,” said she.
A sudden flash illumined Andrew's face. It was like the visible awakening of hope and ambition.
“I don't see why you can't,” he said, eagerly.