"Would you like more pearls, dear? A bracelet, or a ring?"
"No—these are all I want."
"I want to give you a diamond ring some day, Barbara. Your mother's was buried with her. It was her engagement ring."
"Perhaps somebody will give me an engagement ring," she suggested.
"I shouldn't wonder. I don't want to be selfish, dear. You are all I have, but, if you loved a man, I wouldn't try to keep you away from him."
"Prince Charming hasn't come yet, Daddy, so cheer up. I'll tell you when he does."
Thus she turned the talk into a happier vein. They were laughing together like two children when Miriam came in to say that supper was ready.
Alone
Afterward, he sat at the piano, improvising low, sweet chords that echoed back plaintively from the dingy walls. The music was full of questioning, of pleading, of longing so deep that it was almost prayer. Barbara finished her letters by the light of the lamp, while Miriam sat in the dining-room alone, asking herself the old, torturing questions, facing her temptation, and bearing the old, terrible hunger of the heart that hurt her like physical pain.