paused,
and then added, as if in afterthought: "Perhaps when we tell your
father that we care for each other, that when I have proved myself you
are going to be my wife, he may confide in me--that is, if he is
willing to give you to me. You know, dear, it is easier sometimes for
a man to talk to another of his private worries, than to a woman,
even the one nearest and dearest to him in all the world. I may
possibly be of assistance to him. You told me last night that the
change in him had been coming on gradually for several months. When
did it first occur to you that he was in trouble?"

"I don't know. I can't remember. You see, I didn't realize it until
that letter came, and then I began to think back, and the significance
of little things which I had not noticed particularly when they
occurred, was borne in upon me. Although I have no reason for
connecting the two happenings beyond the fact that they coincided, I
cannot help feeling that Mr. Pennold--the young man whom you have
observed when he called to see my father--has something to do with the
state of things, for it was with his very first appearance, more than
two years ago, that my father became a changed man."

"Tell me about it," Morrow urged, gently. "Can you remember, dear,
when he first came?"

"Oh, yes. We have so few visitors--Father doesn't, as a rule,
encourage new acquaintances, you know, Guy, although he did seem to
like you from the very beginning--that the reception of a perfect
stranger into our home as a constant caller puzzled me. It occurred on
a Sunday afternoon in summer. I was sitting out on the porch reading,
when a strange young man came up the path from the gate, and asked to
see my father. I called to him--he was weeding the flowerbed around
the corner of the house--and when he came, I went up to my room,
leaving them alone together. I didn't go, though, until I had seen
their meeting, and one thing about it seemed strange to me, even then.
The stranger, Mr. Pennold, evidently did not know my father, had
never even seen him before, from the way he greeted him, but when
Father first caught sight of his face, his own went deathly white and
he gripped the porch railing for a moment, as if for support.

"'You wished to see me?' he said, and his voice sounded queer and
hollow and dazed, like a person awaking from sleep. 'What can I do for
you?'

"'This is Mr. James Brunell?' the young man asked. 'You are a
map-maker, I understand. I h