Her father
was not as well as he had been.
It seemed to just fit in. She would run down and spend a few quiet days
at Liverpool. In her old familiar room where the moon peeped in over the
tops of the tall pines she would be able to reason things out. Perhaps
her father would be able to help her. She had lost her childish
conception of him as of someone prim and proper, with cut and dried
formulas for all occasions. That glimpse he had shown her of himself had
established a fellowship between them. He, too, had wrestled with life's
riddles, not sure of his own answers. She found him suffering from his
old heart trouble, but more cheerful than she had known him for years.
Arthur seemed to be doing wonders with the men. They were coming to
trust him.
"The difficulty I have always been up against," explained her father,
"has been their suspicion. 'What's the cunning old rascal up to now?
What's his little game?' That is always what I have felt they were
thinking to themselves whenever I have wanted to do anything for them. It
isn't anything he says to them.
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