"Mr. Michaels has came. He's been here about an hour. I done what you
said and let him in."

She smothered an expression of joy, snatched the key and ran upstairs.
Lovely--just as she was thinking of him! She let herself in anticipating
a glad welcome and saw that he was lying on the sofa asleep.

The only light in the room was from the extension lamp on the table and
by its shaded glow she stood looking at him. He was sleeping heavily,
still wrapped in the old overcoat she knew so well, his coarse hands,
with blackened finger nails, clasped on his breast. His face, relaxed in
rest, looked worn, the forehead seamed with its one deep line, the eyes
sunk below the grizzled brows. It came upon her with a shock that he
seemed old and tired, and it hurt her. In a childish desire to bring him
back to himself, have him assume his familiar aspect and stop her pain,
she shook him by the shoulder, crying:

"Pa, Pa, wake up."

He woke with a violent start, his feet swung to the floor, his body
hunched as if to spring, his glance wildly alive. Then it fell on her and
the fierce alertness died out; his face softened into a smile, almost
sheepish, and he rubbed his hand over his eyes.

"Lord, I was asleep," he muttered.

She kissed him, pulled him up, and with an arm round his back,
steered him to an armchair, asking questions. His hand on her waist
patted softly.