"No," he sighed; "I cannot make songs to-day."
"There is always a song, Daddy," she reminded him. "You told me so yourself."
"Yes, I know, but not to-day. Do you know what to-day is, my dear?"
"The seventh—the seventh of June."
"Twenty-one years ago to-day," he said, with an effort, "your dear mother took her own life." The last words were almost inaudible.
Barbara went to him and put her soft arms around his neck. "Daddy!" she whispered, with infinite sympathy, "Daddy!"
He patted her arm gently, unable to speak. She said no more, but the voice and the touch brought healing to his pain. Bone of her bone and flesh of her flesh, the daughter of the dead Constance was thrilled unspeakably with a tenderness that the other had never given him.
"Sit down, my dear," said Ambrose North, slowly releasing her. "I want to talk to you—of her. Did I hear Aunt Miriam go out?"
"Yes, just a few minutes ago."