sat until late with the framed photograph of Barbara's mother on
his knee, and tried to tell the dead and gone original that he had
done his best for the girl so far, and if he had failed, it was
because he knew nothing about raising girls and--nature hadn't cut
him out to be a father, anyhow. He had been considerably older
than Barbara's mother when he married her, and he had never ceased
to wonder what there had been in him to win the love of a woman
like her, or to regret that fate had not taken him instead of her.
Heaven knows his calling had been risky enough. But--that was how
things went sometimes--the wheat was taken and the chaff remained.

And in the morning! Tom was up before daylight and had his dishes
washed and his things in order long ere the town was awake. Then
he went down to the office and waited--with the jumps. Repeatedly
he consulted his heavy gold watch, engraved: "With the admiration
and gratitude of the citizens of Burlingame. November fifth,
1892." It was still two hours of train time when he locked up and
limped off toward the station, but--it was well to be there early.

Of course he met Judge Halloran on the street--he always did--and
of course the judge asked when "Bob" was coming home. The judge
always did that, too. Old Tom had lied diligently to the judge
every day for a month now, for he had no intention of sharing this
day of days with a tiresome old pest, and now he again made an
evasive answer.

"Mendacity is at once the lowest and the commonest form of
deceit," the judge indignantly announced. "You know perfectly well
when she's coming, damn you!"