To-day she climbed the rickety stairs to her home and pushed open the latchless door with a revolt brooding in her mind.
A man in his shirt sleeves sat by the little window.
"Why father--home so early ?" she asked.
"Yes lass, home early," he replied wearily.

"I'm losing my place again." He had straggling gray hair, bleared eyes with an opaque, glazy look and a bluish cast of countenance.

His chin was buried in the collar of his open shirt; his shoulders sagged, and he breathed heavily.
One glance assured Rose her father was not very much under the influence of drink.

And fear left her.

When even half-sober he was kind.
"So you've lost your place ?" she asked.
"Yes.