"Then you mean the poor man's mind does seem affected?"
"Why, no; I'd scarcely go as far as that," Lohr said, inconsistently, and declined to be more definite.
Adams devoted the latter part of that evening to the composition of his letter—a disquieting task not completed when, at eleven o'clock, he heard his daughter coming up the stairs. She was singing to herself in a low, sweet voice, and Adams paused to listen incredulously, with his pen lifted and his mouth open, as if he heard the strangest sound in the world. Then he set down the pen upon a blotter went to his door, and opened it, looking out at her as she came.
"Well, dearie, you seem to be feeling pretty good," he said. "What you been doing?"
"Just sitting out on the front steps, papa."
"All alone, I suppose."
"No. Mr. Russell called."
"Oh, he did?" Adams pretended to be surprised. "What all could you and he find to talk about till this hour o' the night?"
She laughed gaily. "You don't know me, papa!"
"How's that?"
