Miss Nelly had climbed on his knees. She had been brought in to say goodnight.
"When's the ship coming home, papa?"
He suddenly bent down and hid his face on the child's bright one. Heaven alone knew what the moment's suffering was and how he contrived not to betray it.
"Will it come tomorrow, papa?"
"We shall see, darling. I don't know."
The subdued, patient tone had something of hopelessness in it. Mrs. Channing thought he must be very tired.
"Come, Nelly," she said. "It is late, you know."
He kissed the child tenderly as ever, but so quietly, and whispered a prayer for God to bless her; his tone sounding like one of subdued pain, almost as though his heart were breaking. And Nelly went dancing out, talking of the ship and the good things it was to bring.
Quite immediately, a gentleman was shown in. It was the publisher of the book. Late though the hour was, he had come in some perturbation, bringing a copy of the "Snarler."
"Have you any enemy, Mr. Channing?" was nearly the first question he asked, when he found Hamish had seen the article.