“But as I began to descend the stair I met a drunken man ascending—slipping and stumbling as he came. He slipped and stumbled by me, and entered the room. I followed to the landing unnoticed, and stood in the dark shadow of the half-open door.
“A hoarse, brutal voice growled: ‘What are you doing there?—get up!’
“‘I can’t, father; Willie’s head is on my knees.’
“‘Get up!’
“The girl bowed her head lower and lower.
“I could not bear it. I entered the room. The brute was on the bed already in his besotted sleep. The child stole up to me, and in a half-frightened whisper said, ‘Oh, sir, oughtn’t people to keep secrets, if they know them? I think they ought, if they are other people’s.’ This with the dignity of a queen.
“I could not gainsay her, so I said as gravely as I could to the little woman, ‘The secret shall be kept, but you must ask me if you want anything.’ She bent over, suddenly kissed my hand, and I went down the stair.
“The next night she was shy in coming for the whisky, and I took care that she had good measure.
“The last night of our long run of six nights she looked more happy than I had ever seen her. When she came for the whisky she held out the thimble, and whispered to me with her poor, pale lips trembling, ‘You need only pretend to-night.’
“‘Why?’ I whispered.