Rose had not always been the same, but there was no one now to tell what she had been or to see her as she had been seen. Once in a while she thought of her father, who died when she was ten. When she remembered him, trying to remember his voice, she looked more than ever like a bird that has found its feet on the ground instead of finding its wings in the air. She looked around her and wondered. She was tame, but the place was strange. Whatever she might have been, laughing, solemn, hopeful, melancholy, serene, unquiet, ambitious, or whatever she might have become, she was now only tame. She had turned tame when her father died, as she might have turned traitor to a cause she had once been ready to give her life for. She had known her father was dead but not that he was gone, and even when she began to know he was gone she refused to believe that he was gone out of sight, and she put the strength of a lifetime into her struggle to keep him in sight until she was sure he was safe. She had forgotten all that was familiar to her in her struggle to stand by the one who had made it all familiar. She knew he would expect it of her. He had said that she was faithful. He had said that she would never let anyone down. Over and over again he had said she was a good child, and that she had no bad in her. He had always defended her to her mother.