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attacks, the countless indignities which had met him on all sides,
if there had not been one little child who adored him, who followed
him about like a shadow, who loved him and trusted him utterly?
Busy as his life had been, burdened as he had been for years with
twice as much work as he could get through, the child had never
been crowded out of his life. Even as a little thing of four years
old, Erica had been quite content to sit on the floor in his study
by the hour together, quietly amusing herself by cutting old
newspapers into fantastic shapes, or by drawing impossible cats and
dogs and horses on the margins. She had never disturbed him; she
used to talk to herself in whispers.
Are you happy, little one? he used to ask from time to time, with
a sort of passionate desire that he should enjoy her unconscious
childhood, foreseeing care and trouble for her in the future.
Yes, very happy, had been the invariable response; and generally
Erica would avail herself of the interruption to ask his opinion
about some squareheaded cat, with eyes askew and an astonishing
number of legs, which she had just drawn. Then would come what she
called a bear's hug, after which silence reigned again in the
study, while Raeburn would go on writing some argumentative
pamphlet, hard and clear as crystal, his heart warmed by the little
child's love, the remains of a smile lingering about his lips at
the recollection of the squareheaded cat.
And the years passed on, and every year deepened and strengthened
their love. And by slow degrees he had watched the development of
her mind; had gloried in her quick perception, had learned to come
to her for a second opinion every now and then; had felt proud of
her common sense, her thoughtful judgments; had delighted in her
enthusiastic, loving help. All this was ended now. Strange that,
just as he hoped most from her, she should fail him! It was a
repetition of his own early history exactly reversed. His thoughts
went back to his father's study in the old Scottish parsonage. He
remembered a long, fierce argument; he remembered a storm of
abusive anger, and a furious dismissal from the house. The old
pain came back to him vividly.
And she loves me fifty thousand times more than I ever loved my
father, he reflected. And, though I was not abusive, I was hard
on her. And, however mistaken, she was very brave, very honest.
Oh, I was cruel to her harsh, and hateful! My little child! My
poor little child! It shall not it cannot divide us. I am hers,
and she is mine nothing can ever alter that.

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