And when he realized it and saw this and looked down on that lonely,
patient, wistful little creature making the best shift she could with
those pitiable playthings, something came up from that man's breast into
his throat. He had not supposed he had any of it left in his soul--it
was tender, agonizing, heartrending pity.

She still stared at him, terrorized. Probably she had never seen any
face come in at that door except her mother's.

His pity must have given Walker Farr a hint of how to deal with this
frightened child. He did not speak to her. He made no move toward her.

He smiled!

But it was not the smile he had given the fat plutocrat in the
automobile, nor yet the jocular radiance he had displayed to old
Etienne. It was such a smile as the man had never smiled before--and he
realized it. He did not want to smile. He wanted to weep. But he brought
that smile from tender depths in his soul--depths he had not known of
before--and tears came with the smile.

Before that time the lines in his face had fitted the smile of the
cynic, the grimace of banter, of irony and insolence. But the strange
glory that now glowed upon his features came there after the mightiest
effort he had ever made to control his feelings and his expression.

He smiled!

In that smile he soothed, he promised, he appealed. Then when he saw the
tense expression of fear fade away he smiled more broadly--he provoked