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“Oh, it’s the painter, grandpa! We thought it might be the doctor.”

He was sitting in an armchair by the fire, wrapped in a blanket. Holding out his hand, he motioned to a chair and said feebly:–

“How did you hear?”

“The brakeman told me.”

“Yes, Dan knows. He comes over Sundays.”

He was greatly changed,–his skin drawn and shrunken,–his grizzled beard, once so great a contrast to his ruddy skin, only added to the pallor of his face. He had had a slight “stroke,” he thought. It had passed off, but left him very weak.

I sat down and, to change the current of his thoughts, told him of the river outside, and the shelving ice, of my life since I had seen him, and whatever I thought would interest him. He made no reply, except in monosyllables, his head buried in his hands. Soon the afternoon light faded, and I rose to go. Then he roused himself, threw the blanket from his shoulders and said in something of his old voice:–

“Don’t leave me. Do you hear? Don’t leave me!” this was with an authoritative gesture. Then, his voice faltering and with almost a tender tone, “Please help me through this. My strength is almost gone.”

Later, when the night closed in, he called Emily to him, pushed her hair back and, kissing her forehead, said:–

“Now go to bed, little Frowsy-head. The painter will stay with me.”

I filled his pipe, threw some dry driftwood in the stove, and drew my chair nearer. He tried to smoke for a moment, but laid his pipe down. For some minutes he kept his eyes on the crackling wood; then, reaching his hand out, laid it on my arm and said slowly:–

“If it were not for the child, I would be glad that the end was near.”

“Has she no one to care for her?” I asked.

“Only her mother. When I am gone, she will come.”

“Her mother? Why, Brockway! I did not know Emily’s mother was alive. Why not send for her now,” I said, looking into his shrunken face. “You need a woman’s care at once.”

His grasp tightened on my arm as he half rose from the chair, his eyes blazing as I had seen them that morning when he cursed the boat’s crew.

“But not that woman! Never, while I live!” and he bent down his eyes on mine. “Look at me. Men sometimes cut you to the quick, and now and then a woman can leave a scar that never heals; but your own child,–do you hear?–your little girl, the only one you ever had, the one you laid store by and loved and dreamed dreams of,–she can tear your heart out. That’s what Emily’s mother did for me. Oh, a fine gentleman, with his yachts, and boats, and horses,–a fine young aristocrat! He was a thief, I tell you, a blackguard, a beast, to steal my girl. Damn him! Damn him! Damn him!” and he fell back in his chair exhausted.

“Where is she now?” I asked cautiously, trying to change his thoughts. I was afraid of the result if the outburst continued.

“God knows! Somewhere in the city. She comes here every now and then,” in a weaker voice. “Emily meets her and they go off together when I am out raking my beds. Not long ago I met her outside on the foot-bridge; she did not look up; her hair is gray now, and her face is thin and old, and so sad,–not as it once was. God forgive me,–not as it once was!” He leaned forward, his face buried in his hands.

Then he staggered to his feet, took the lamp from the table, and brought me the picture I had seen in Emily’s room the night of the storm.

“You can see what she was like. It was taken the year before his death and came with Emily’s clothes. She found it in her box.”

I held it to the light. The large, dreamy eyes seemed even more pleading than when I first had seen the picture; and the smooth hair pushed back from the high forehead, I now saw, marked all the more clearly the lines of anxious care which were then beginning to creep over the sweet young face. It seemed to speak to me in an earnest, pleading way, as if for help.