ot surprising, however, that Dorothea should not see this aspect of
his personality, or look upon his commands as other than those of an
unreasonable despotism.

"Father," she said, "I can't go on living like this."

"Living like what?"

"Living as we've lived all this summer."

"What's the matter with the summer? It's like any other summer, isn't
it?"

"The summer may be like any other summer; but you're not like yourself.
I do everything I can to please you, but--"

"You needn't do anything to please me but what you're told."

"I always do what I'm told--when you tell me; but you only tell me by
fits and starts."

"Then, I tell you now: you're not to go to the Thoroughgoods'."

"But they expect me. I said I'd go to lunch. They'll think it very
strange if I don't."

"They'll think what they please. It's enough for you to know what I
think."

"But that's just what I don't know. Ever since Diane went away--"

"Stop that! I've forbidden you to speak--"

"But you can't forbid me to think; and I think till I'm utterly
bewildered. You don't explain anything to me. You haven't even told me
why she went away. If I ask a question you won't answer it."

"What's necessary for you to know, you can depend on me to tell you.
Anything I don't explain to you, you may dismiss from your mind."

"But that's not reasonable, father; it's not possible. If you want me to
obey you, I must know what I'm doing. Because I don't know what I'm
doing, I haven't--"

"You haven't obeyed me?" he asked, quickly.

"Not entirely. I've meant to tell you when an occasion offered, so I
might as well do it now. I've written to Diane."

"You've--!"

He strode up to her and caught her by the arm. It was not strange that
she should take the curious light in his face for that of anger; but a
more experienced observer would have seen that two distinct emotions
crowded on each other.

"I've written to her twice," Dorothea repeated, defiantly, as he held
her arm. "She didn't reply to me--but I wrote."

"What for?"

"To tell her that I loved her--that no trouble should keep me from
loving her--no matter what it was."

He released her arm, stepping back from her again, surveying her with an
admiration he tried to conceal under a scowling brow. The rigidity of
her attitude, the lift of her head, the set of her lips, the directness
of her glance, suggested not merely rebellion against his will, but the
assertion of her own. It occurred to