"Yes."

"An' the forks."

"Yes."

"An' them photygraph pictures in the parlor."

"All right, father." The woman turned away. Her step was slow, but
confident--the last word had been said.

To Jane Pendergast her father had gone with the going of his keen, clear
mind, twenty years before. This fretful, childish, exacting old man that
pottered about the house all day was but the shell that had held the
kernel--the casket that had held the jewel. But because of what it had
held, Jane guarded it tenderly, laying at its feet her life as a willing
sacrifice.

There had been four children: Edgar, the eldest; Jane, Mary, and Fred.
Edgar had left home early, and was a successful business man in Boston.
Mary had married a wealthy lawyer of the same city; and Fred had opened
a real estate office in a thriving Southern town.

Jane had stayed at home. There had been a time, it is true, when she had
planned to go away to school; but the death of Mrs. Pendergast left no
one at home to care for Mary and Fred, so Jane had abandoned the idea.
Later, after Mary had married and Fred had gone away, there was still
her father to be cared for, though at this time he was well and strong.