"Daddy! Daddy, dear!"
Schuyler, head buried, thought at first that it was but within himself that he heard—that it was that other sense—that unknown sense—that had called him…. The cry came again…. Slowly he raised his head, and looked….
A great, cold clutch tore his heart. His veins stiffened. His head reeled. He staggered, back, clutching for support, at the chair. Even this had come to him!
It was she—his daughter—the child of his wife, and of himself—the child that had been his to love when still he had been man.
The little one was scampering down the stairs, tiny feet pattering upon thick carpet. Her eyes were dancing; her lips smiling; there was in her the great, unequivocating, unquestioning gladness of the young.
"Daddy!" she cried, again, all delight. "Daddy, dear!"
He hesitated…. Then swiftly he ran to her, seizing her in eager, thrilling arms, hiding her face against his breast, that she might not see—Yet was it too late.
"Oh, what a beautiful lady, daddy!" cried the little one. "Who is she?"
He gasped. He choked. He could not answer…. The woman stood looking on, smiling—still smiling.
At length he found words: