"I always liked your father, Shirley, and I think he always liked me," was Miriam's remark.
"Yes, he did. But did you ever stop to think," went on Shirley hastily, "why, my father never wronged anybody! My father was good—my father was honest! Oh, I could scourge myself," she declared sadly, "for the things I used to think about father. I even told Murgatroyd, once, that though I loved my father, I could never admire him, respect him."
Miriam raised her eyebrows and protested mildly:—
"You never told me that, Shirley."
"No!" exclaimed the girl; "my friends don't know the worst side of me! My father a failure! Fortunately in these three years I have come to look upon things differently—have come to know that he was a success, simply because he was real. Money! What is money? My father was a man!"
Miriam rose suddenly and went over to her and kissed her.
"I'm glad, Shirley," she said with feeling, "that you found it out. I knew it always."
All this time, Shirley had been watching with growing curiosity, the fancy work on which Miriam sewed so industriously. At last, she ventured:—
"Miriam, I'm a regular old maid. I haven't been one hour in your house, and already I'm burning up with curiosity to know just what you're making."
Miriam glanced a moment out of the window, then she answered somewhat evasively:—