ble will which made
Julian Marbolt an object of fear to all who came into contact with
him.

"You are an ungrateful girl, a foolish girl," he said quietly. "You
are ungrateful that you refuse to obey me; and foolish, that you think
to marry him."

Diane sprang to her feet. "I--how----"

"Tut! Do not protest. I know you have promised to be his wife. If you
denied it you would lie." He sat for a moment enjoying the girl's
discomfort. Then he went on, with a cruel smile about his lips as she
returned to her seat with a movement that was almost a collapse.
"That's better," he said, following her action by means of his
wonderful instinct. "Now let us be sensible--very sensible."

His tone had become persuasive, such as might have been used to a
child, and the girl wondered what further cruelty it masked. She had
not long to wait.

"You are going to give up this madness," he said coldly. "You will
show yourself amenable to reason--my reason--or I shall enforce my
demands in another way."

The girl's exasperation was growing with each moment, but she kept
silence, waiting for him to finish.

"You will never marry this man," he went on, with quiet emphasis. "Nor
any other man while I live. There is no marriage for you, my girl.
There can be no marriage for you. And the more 'unimpeachable' a man's
character the less the possibility."

"I don't pretend to understand you," Diane replied, with a coldness
equal to her father's own.

"No; perhaps you don't." The man chuckled fiendishly.

Tears sprang into the girl's eyes. She could no longer check them.
And with them came the protest that she was also powerless to
withhold.

"Why may I not marry? Why can I not marry? Surely I can claim the
right of every woman to marry the man of her choice. I know you have
no good will for me, father. Why, I cannot understand. I have always
obeyed you; I have ever striven to do my duty. If there has never been
any great affection displayed, it is not my fault. For, ever since I
can remember, you have done your best to kill the love I would have
given you. How have I been ungrateful? What have I to be grateful for?
I cannot remember one single kindness you have ever shown me. You have
set up a barrier between me and the world outside this ranch. I am a
prisoner here. Why? Am I so hateful? Have I no claims on your
toleration? Am I not your own flesh and blood?"

"No!"

The man's answer came with staggering force. It was the burstin