She had heard that cheery, optimistic note in her father's voice before; she knew how much of it was meant for her ears.
None of his disasters were ever serious, to hear daddy talk--"only the common lot of the contracting engineer, little girl," he would say, kissing her good-night, while he again pored over his plans, sometimes until daylight.
She crept up to him the closer and nestled her fingers inside his collar--an old caress of hers when she was a child, then looking up into his eyes she asked with almost a throb of suffering in her voice, "Is it as bad as the coffer-dam, daddy ?" Jack looked on in silence.

He dared not add a word of comfort of his own while his Chief held first place in soothing her fears.
MacFarlane passed his hand over her forehead--"Don't ask me, child! Why do you want to bother your dear head over such things, Puss ?" he asked, as he stroked her hair.
"Because I must and will know.

Tell me the truth," she demanded, lifting her head, a note of resolve in her voice.

"I can help you the better if I know it all." Some of the blood of one of her great-great-grandmothers, who had helped defend a log-house in Indian times, was asserting itself.

She could weep, but she could fight, too, if necessary.
"Well, then, I'm afraid it is worse than the coffer-dam," he answered in all seriousness.