“Ah, so,” said he.  “Yes, you come back to me and we are happy—­very happy.  It is my good luck—­much better than I really deserve.  Come, now, come.  A little cake, a little wine, in honor of your visit.  M’riar, M’riar—­where have you gone, M’riar?”

From the other room the slavey came with reddened eyes.

“’Ere, sir; ’ere Miss.”  She was snuffling.

“Why, M’riar,” said Kreutzer, in dismay!  “What is it?  Why weep you?”

“Ho, it allus mykes me snivel w’en I sees you two together, that w’y.  Hi cawn’t stand it.  ’Ow you love!  It mykes me ’ungry.  Yuss, fair ’ungry.  Nobody ain’t hever loved me none—­it mykes me ’ungry.”

Quick with remorse and sympathy Anna pounced upon her and enfolded her in a great hug, realizing, for the first time, that, on entering, she had been too anxious to show her affection for her father, too full of worry over what she had, that day, to tell him, to remember M’riar.

“Dear M’riarrr!” she said softly.  “Dear M’riarrr!  We love you.  Don’t we father—­love her?”

“Yah; sure we love her,” Kreutzer answered heartily and patted the child’s head.  “We love her much.”

“My heye!” said M’riar, happily, her sorrows quickly vanishing. “’Ow much nicer New York his than Lunnon!”

It was with the grace of an old cavalier that Kreutzer led his daughter to the table, and called her attention to the little feast he had prepared.

The small display of goodies would have seemed poor enough had she compared it to the everyday “light luncheons” at the Vanderlyns’, but she did not so compare it.  Back to the old days of modest plenty which they had known in London, to the days of almost actual need which they had known in New York City, went her mind, for its comparison, and thus she found the feast magnificent.  With real fervor she exclaimed above it.  Her pleasure was so genuine that the old flute-player was delighted.  “How splendid!” she cried honestly.

Having placed her in her chair he began, at once, in the confusion of his joy, to cut the cake, ignoring, utterly, the chicken.  She did not call attention to his absent-mindedness.

“It looks almost like a wedding cake!” said she and laughed—­but then, suddenly, there flooded back on her remembrance of the secret she must tell him before she left the tenement that afternoon.  It sobered her.  How would he take the news that she had not been content to wait for him to bring to her his wonderful “brave gentleman?”

“Ah, you are thinking about weddings!” he said genially, still cutting at the cake.  For an instant she imagined that she had aroused suspicions, but, quickly, she saw plainly that he was but lightly jesting.  “Have a care, my Anna!  Have a care!”