She was the older sister of Ambrose North's dead wife--the woman he had
so devotedly loved. Ever since her sister's death, she had lived with
them, taking care of little lame Barbara, now grown into beautiful
womanhood, except for the crutches. After his blindness, Ambrose North
had lost his wife, and then, by slow degrees, his fortune. Mercifully, a
long illness had made him forget a great deal.

"Never mind, Barbara," said Miriam, in a low tone, as they rose from the
table. "It will make your hands too rough for the sewing."

"Shan't I wipe the dishes for you, Aunty? I'd just as soon."

"No--go with him."

The fire had gone down, but the room was warm, so Barbara turned up the
light and began again on her endless stitching. Her father's hands
sought hers.

"More sewing?" His voice was tender and appealing.

"Just a little bit, Father, please. I'm so anxious to get this done."

"But why, dear?"

"Because girls are so vain," she answered, with a laugh.

"Is my little girl vain?"

"Awfully. Hasn't she the dearest father in the world and the