But she bustled about noisily, so that he would not notice it.

If they saw the marks of the ill life he had lived on his old face, she did not; his sad, uncertain eyes may have been dishonest to them, but they were nothing but kind to the misshapen little soul that he kissed so warmly with a "Why, Lo, my little girl!" Nobody else in the world ever called her by a pet name.
Sometimes he was gloomy and silent, but generally he told her of all that had happened in the mill, particularly any little word of notice or praise he might have received, watching her anxiously until she laughed at it, and then rubbing his hands cheerfully.

He need not have doubted Lois's faith in him.

Whatever the rest did, she believed in him; she always had believed in him, through all the dark years, when he was at home, and in the penitentiary.

They were gone now, never to come back.