Edna, holding her breath, slipped noiselessly out of her room and down the stairs. The steps were kind to her, and did not creak. She opened the door of the dining-room, and appeared as silently as if she were a ghost. Her father started from his chair, and it required all his habitual self-command to repress the exclamation that rose to his lips.
“Heaven help us, my dearest girl; do you want to frighten your old father out of what little wits he has left him?” he whispered.. “Why aren’t you asleep?” She gently closed the door, then ran to him, and threw her arms about his neck.
“Oh, father, are you safe? You are not hurt?”
“Hurt! Why, what would hurt me, you silly baby?” He ruffled her hair, pulling it over her eyes. “You’ve been dreaming; I believe you are talking in your sleep now. Why are you not in bed?”
“I couldn’t sleep till you came home. What kept you so late, father?”
“Now this is more than the law requires of a man. Have I to make explanations to two women every night I come home by the late train?”
The girl sat down on a hassock, and laid her head on her father’s knee, he smoothing her hair caressingly.
“What is all this pother about, Edna? Why are you so anxious at my being out late?”
“I was afraid you were in danger; I read what was said in the paper about your defying the men, and—and——”
Sartwell laughed quietly.