Page:The Father Confessor, Stories of Danger and Death.djvu/139



NGELA'S father had returned home. He had come upon her birthday; she was twelve years old. She had almost forgotten her father, it was so long since she had seen him. Not since she had left India herself, seven years ago. And Angela's mother, she had not come. It was long before Angela clearly understood why, and why there came no more the beautiful letters she so loved, from that mother, who was named Angela too.

It was when Angela's father came home that her irresponsible, short life changed to her. The first night of his arrival, she had awakened to find him gazing down upon her with a look she could not understand, so eager, so hungry, so despairing it was. He then sank upon his knees by her cot, putting his arms about her, saying, as though speaking to a woman, "Comfort me, my daughter; 2em