will, dividing everything I have between you. I should like your share
to go to Barbara, eventually, if you can see your way clear to do it."

"Don't!" cried Miriam, sharply. The strain was insupportable.

"I do not wish to pain you, Sister," answered the old man, with gentle
dignity, "but sometimes it is necessary that these things be said. I
shall not speak of it again. Will you give me back the check, please,
and show me where to date it? I shall date it to-morrow--I cannot bear
to write down this day."

* * * * *

When Barbara came down, her father was sitting at the old square piano,
quite alone, improvising music that was both beautiful and sad. He
seldom touched the instrument, but, when he did, wayfarers in the street
paused to listen.

"Are you making a song, Father?" she asked, softly, when the last deep
chord died away.

[Sidenote: Too Sad for Songs]

"No," he sighed; "I cannot make songs to-day."

"There is always a song, Daddy," she reminded him. "You told me so
yourself."

"Yes, I know, but not to-day. Do you know what to-day is, my dear?"