was dead before Christmas, nominally of bronchitis and heart failure.
Nelly had worn mourning for him up to her wedding day. She had been very
sorry for 'poor papa'--and very fond of him; whereas Bridget had been
rather hard on him always. For really he had done his best. After all he
had left them just enough to live upon. Nelly's conscience, grown
tenderer than of old under the touch of joy, pricked her as she thought
of her father. She knew he had loved her best of his two daughters. She
would always remember his last lingering hand-clasp, always be thankful
for his last few words--'God bless you, dear.' But had she cared for him
enough in return?--had she really tried to understand him? Some
vague sense of the pathos of age--of its isolation--its dumb
renouncements--gripped her. If he had only lived longer! He would have
been so proud of George.

She roused herself.

'You did really make up your mind--_then_?' she asked him, just for the
pleasure of hearing him confess it again.

'Of course I did! But what was the good?'

She knew that he meant it had been impossible to speak while his mother
was still alive, and he, her only child, was partly dependent upon her.
But his mother had died not long after Nelly's father, and her little
income had come to her son. So now what with Nelly's small portion, and
his mother's two hundred and fifty a year in addition to his pay, the
young subaltern thought himself almost rich--in comparison with so many
others. His father, who had died while he was still at school, had been
a master at Harrow, and he had been brought up in a refined home, with
high standards and ideals. A scholarship at Oxford at one of the smaller