"Yes," Jean admitted, "it was one of Emily's precious pets."
"Please don't think any more about it," Emily begged. "You had better get your father home at once, and put him to bed with a hot water bottle."
Now that the shabby youth was looking at her with troubled eyes, Emily found herself softening towards the old gentleman. Simply as a derelict she had not cared what became of him. But as the father of this son, she cared.
"Thank you, I will. We must be going, Dad."
The old gentleman stood up. "Wait a minute—I came for tin soldiers—Derry—"
"They are not for sale," Miss Emily stated. "They are made in Germany. I can't get any more. I have withdrawn everything of the kind from my selling stock."
The shabby old gentleman murmured, disconsolately.
"Oh, Emily," said the girl behind the counter, "don't you think we might—?"
Derry Drake glanced at her with sudden interest. She had an unusual voice, quick and thrilling. It matched her beauty, which was of a rare quality—white skin, blue eyes, crinkled hair like beaten copper.
"I don't see," he said, smiling for the first time, "what Dad wants of tin soldiers."