se I never received them," I answered, cheered by the thought
that thus far I could tell her the truth. "Did you really write to me?"

"Many times," she said; "until I got tired of writing and receiving no
answer. You made me very angry."

"The letters must have been lost in the mail," said I, bent on keeping
this disagreeable subject in the background. "Country post-offices are
very careless in the way they handle things, and mine to you--my
letters--must have gone astray too."

"Then you did write to me as you promised, David?" she exclaimed.

"Until I got tired of receiving no answer," I returned, laughing. "But
of course it is too late to complain to the government now."

Penelope was not satisfied. Her brows were knitted. I believed that
there lurked in her mind a suspicion that not the government alone was
concerned in the interruption of that early correspondence, but I was
determined to ignore a subject which, if too closely pressed, might
bring about unpleasant consequences. The easiest way was to turn the
trend of her thought with a bold question, which had been hanging on my
lips through many blocks of the walk. And so, as casually as though I
inquired of her about some distant friend or relative, I spoke of her
father.

Penelope stopped short and laid a hand upon my arm. Then as suddenly
she strode ahead.

"I know nothing of him, David," she said in a voice almost harsh. "I
have not seen him since that dreadful day in the clearing. Once I
heard from him--a few lines--but that was so long ago that at times I
almost forget that I ever had a father."

"What did he write to you, Penelope?"

She seemed not to hear my question, for she was walking very fast, with
her eyes set straight ahead of her. "He might pass me at this minute,
David, and I should not know him. That might be he, standing by that
window, and I should be none the wiser, yet the fault is his. I try
always to think of him as I should, but at times it seems as though he
had disowned me, abandoned me on his brother's doorstep and then run
away. You ask of the letter. It came to me soon after I left the
farm. He said that it was best that my uncle should have me, better
than to condemn me to shift about the world with him; he said that he
had been a lazy, worthless creature, but he was going to do something,
to be somebody--those were his words; and some day, when I could be
proud of him, he would come back and claim me, an