DeVere was proud, and declined, though in the most
delightfully polite way.
"I--I don't see how he can refuse, when he knows we are really
hungry!" sighed Alice.
"You wouldn't want him to be a beggar; would you?" flashed Ruth.
"No. But it's awfully hard; isn't it?"
"It is. Too bad they don't pay for rehearsals. And there'll be
another full week! Oh, Alice, I wish there was something we could do
to earn money!"
"So do I! But what is there?"
"I don't know. Oh, dear!"
They sat in the gloaming--silent, waiting for their father to come
home.
"There's his step!" exclaimed Ruth, jumping up.
"Yes--but," said Alice, in puzzled, frightened tones, "it--it doesn't
sound like him, somehow. How--how slowly he walks! Oh, I hope nothing
has happened!"
"Happened? How could there?" asked Ruth, yet with blanched face.
The door opened, and Mr. DeVere entered. It needed but a glance at
his white face to show that something had happened--something
tragic--and not the tragedy of the theater.
"Oh, Father--Daddy--what is it!" cried Alice, springing to his arms.
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