The Tin Soldier | Page 3

was valuable?"
"Yes," Jean admitted, "it was one of Emily's precious pets."
"Please don't think any more about it," Emily begged. "You had better get your father home at once, and put him to bed with a hot water bottle."
Now that the shabby youth was looking at her with troubled eyes, Emily found herself softening towards the old gentleman. Simply as a derelict she had not cared what became of him. But as the father of this son, she cared.
"Thank you, I will. We must be going, Dad."
The old gentleman stood up. "Wait a minute--I came for tin soldiers--Derry--"
"They are not for sale," Miss Emily stated. "They are made in Germany. I can't get any more. I have withdrawn everything of the kind from my selling stock."
The shabby old gentleman murmured, disconsolately.
"Oh, Emily," said the girl behind the counter, "don't you think we might--?"
Derry Drake glanced at her with sudden interest. She had an unusual voice, quick and thrilling. It matched her beauty, which was of a rare quality--white skin, blue eyes, crinkled hair like beaten copper.
"I don't see," he said, smiling for the first time, "what Dad wants of tin soldiers."
"To make 'em fight," said the shabby old man, "we've got to have some fighting blood in the family."
The smile was struck from the young man's face. Out of a dead silence, he said at last, "You were very good to look after him. Come, Dad." His voice was steady, but the flush that had flamed in his cheeks was still there, as he put his arm about the shaky old man and led him to the door.
"Thank you both again," he said from the threshold. Then, with his head high, he steered his unsteady parent out into the rain.
It was late when the two women left the shop. Miss Emily, struggling down the block with her white elephant, found, in a few minutes, harbor in her boarding house. But Jean lived in the more fashionable section beyond Dupont Circle. Her father was a doctor with a practice among the older district people, who, in spite of changing administrations and fluctuating populations, had managed, to preserve their family traditions and social identity.
Dr. McKenzie did not always dine at home. But tonight when Jean came down he was at the head of the table. He was a big, handsome man with crinkled hair like his daughter's, copper-colored and cut close to his rather classic head.
Hilda Merritt was also at the table. She was a trained nurse, who, having begun life as the Doctor's office-girl, had, gradually, after his wife's death, assumed the management of his household. Jean was not fond of her. She had repeatedly begged that her dear Emily might take Miss Merritt's place.
"But Hilda is much younger," her father had contended, "and much more of a companion for you."
"She isn't a companion at all, Daddy. We haven't the same thoughts."
But Hilda had stayed on, and Jean had sought her dear Emily's company in the little shop. Sometimes she waited on customers. Sometimes she worked in the rear room. It was always a great joke to feel that she was really helping. In all her life her father had never let her do a useful thing.
The table was lighted with candles, and there was a silver dish of fruit in the center. The dinner was well-served by a trim maid.
Jean ate very little. Her father noticed her lack of appetite, "Why don't you eat your dinner, dear?"
"I had chocolate at Emily's."
"I don't think she ought to go there so often," Miss Merritt complained.
"Why not?" Jean's voice was like the crack of a whip.
"It is so late when you get home. It isn't safe."
"I can always send the car for you, Jean," her father said. "I don't care to have you out alone."
"Having the car isn't like walking. You know it isn't, Daddy, with the rain against your cheeks and the wind--"
Dr. McKenzie's quick imagination was fired. His eyes were like Jean's, lighted from within.
"I suppose it is all right if she comes straight up Connecticut Avenue, Hilda?"
Miss Merritt had long white hands which lay rather limply on the table. Her arms were bare. She was handsome in a red-cheeked, blond fashion.
"Of course if you think it is all right, Doctor--"
"It is up to Jean. If she isn't afraid, we needn't worry."
"I'm not afraid of anything."
He smiled at her. She was so pretty and slim and feminine in her white gown, with a string of pearls on her white neck. He liked pretty things and he liked her fearlessness. He had never been afraid. It pleased him that his daughter should share his courage.
"Perhaps, if I am not too busy, I will come for you the next time you go to the shop. Would walking with me break the spell of the