With every year, Nora had grown up into a fuller understanding of her father's tragedy; a more bitter, a more indignant understanding.

They might worry through; one way or another she supposed they would worry through.

But her father's strength and genius were being sacrificed.

And this child of seventeen did not see how to stop it.
After she had brought him his pipe, and he was drawing at it contentedly over the fire, she stood silent beside him, bursting with something she could not make up her mind to say.

He put out an arm, as she stood beside his chair, and drew her to him.
"Dear little Trotty Veck!" It had been his pet name for her as a child.
Nora, for answer, bent her head, and kissed him.
"Father"-- she broke out--"I've got my first job!" He looked up enquiringly.
"Mr.Hurst"-- she named her English Literature tutor, a fellow of Marmion--"has got it for me.