lost his faith in God. What was the meaning of it all if life were nothing
but a start, and there were nothing but the grave?

"You will live on in our children's lives."

He glanced around at Deborah. Was _she_ so certain, so serene? "What do I
know of her?" he asked. "Little or nothing," he sadly replied. And he tried
to piece together from things she had told him her life as it had passed
him by. Had there been no questionings, no sharp disillusionments? There
must have been. He recalled irritabilities, small acts and exclamations of
impatience, boredom, "blues." And as he watched her he grew sure that his
daughter's existence had been like his own. Despite its different setting,
its other aims and visions, it had been a mere beginning, a feeling for a
foothold, a search for light and happiness. And Deborah seemed to him still
a child. "How far will _you_ go?" he wondered.

Although he was still watching her even after the music had ceased, she did
not notice him for a time. Then she turned to him slowly with a smile.

"Well? What did you see?" she asked.

"I wasn't looking," he replied.

"Why, dearie," she retorted. "Where's that imagination of yours?"

"It was with you," he answered. "Tell me what you were thinking."

And still under the spell of the music, Deborah said to her father,

"I was thinking of hungry people--millions of them, now, this minute--not