Tom Parker had heard of children spoiled by schooling, of
daughters educated away from their commonplace parents and
rendered disdainful of them, but never for one instant did he fear
that his girl was that sort. He just knew better. He could no more
have doubted "Bob's" love for him than his for her, or-God's love
for both of them. Such love is perfect, absolute. He took no
thought, therefore, of the changes time and poverty had wrought in
his appearance: "Bob" wouldn't notice. He bet she wouldn't care if
he was plumb ragged. They were one and indivisible; she was _his_,
just like his right arm; she was his boy and his girl; his son-
daughter. The old gunman choked and his tonsils ached abominably.
He hoped he wasn't in for another attack of quinsy sore throat.
But--why lie to himself? The truth was, he wanted to cry and he
wanted to laugh at the same time, and the impulses were crossed in
his windpipe. He shook his watch like a child's rattle, to be sure
it was still running.

Barbara did not disappoint her father. On the contrary, she was
perhaps more deeply moved than he at their meeting. At sight of
him she uttered a strangled little cry, then she ran into his arms
and clung there, tightly, her cheek pressed against his breast. It
was only upon occasions like this that "Bob" kissed her father,
for she had been reared as a boy and taught to shun emotional
display. Boys kiss their mothers. She snuggled close, and Tom
could feel her whole body shaking; but she kept her head averted
to conceal a distressingly unmasculine weakness. It was a useless
precaution, however, for Tom was blind, his eyes were as wet as
hers, and tears were trickling down the seams in his wrinkled
face.