't hear it. I hate him, I hate him. Take
the reins--I'll walk. You've spoilt everything now. I always wish he was
dead when I hear his name, and I wish he was dead this minute."

"My dear Abel, I'm sorry. I didn't think you felt so bad as that about
him. He doesn't feel at all like that about you."

"I hate him, I tell you, and I'm not the only one that hates him. And I
don't care what he feels about me. He's my greatest enemy on earth, and
people who understand have told me so, and I won't be beholden to him
for anything--and--and you can stick up for him till you're black in the
face for all I care. I know he's bad and I'll be his enemy always."

"You're a little fool," she said calmly. "Let me drive and you can
listen to me now. If you listen to stupid, wicked people talking of your
father, then listen to me for a change. You don't know anything whatever
about him, because you won't give him a chance to talk to you himself.
If you once let him, you'd very soon stop all this nonsense."

"You're bluffing," he said. "You think you'll get round me like that,
but you won't. You're only a girl. You don't know anything. It's men
tell me about my father. You think he's good, because you love him; but
he's bad, really--as bad as hell--as bad as hell."

"What's he done then? I'm not bluffing, Abel. There's nothing to bluff
about. What's your father done to you? You must have some reason for
hating him?"

"Yes, I have."

"What is it, then?"

"It's because the Mill ought to be mine when he dies--there!"

She did not answer immediately. She had often thought the same thing.
Instinct told her that frankness must be the only course. Through
frankness he might still be won.

He did not speak again after his last assertion, and presently she
answered in a manner to surprise him. Directness was natural to Estelle
and both her father and her friend, Mr. Churchouse, had fostered it.
People either deprecated or admired this quality of her talk, for
directness of speech is so rare that it never fails to appear
surprising.

"I think you're right there, Abel. Perhaps the Mill ought to be yours
some day. Perhaps it will be. The things that ought to happen really do
sometimes."

Then he surprised her in his turn.

"I wouldn't take the Mill--not now. I'll never take anything from him.
It's too late now."

She realised the futility of argument.

"You're tired," she said, "and so am I. We'll talk about important
things again