Day after day—five, to be exact—she had returned to Morgan's; and each time the man would understand what had drawn her, and with a kindly smile would sit down at the piano and play. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. “I might go home, I don’t know. She was glad to join in the stream of hurrying homeward workers that was now welling out of a thousand places of employment, and to imitate their driven, preoccupied haste. She would never return to her father; that resolution was final. He sent a speculative glance at the immobile yellow face.
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