ing things up with a vengeance, I
must say! There must be something in the atmosphere. It'll be a little
lonely in that big New York house without you, Susie."

"I know it will, dear dad. And if you say the word, I won't leave
you--not for a long, long time. It will be a long time anyway, you
know--a year, at least--there will be so much to do."

"And a year is quite long enough to keep two lovers apart. Youth goes
faster than you think, my dear. No, no; it'll be all right, Susie. You
don't suppose I'm as selfish as all that!"

"No, dad; that's just what I'm afraid of; you're not selfish enough.
It's I who am selfish."

"Nonsense! Everybody in this world has a right to happiness, Susie; why,
that's one of the foundation-stones of the Declaration of Independence.
And, I take it, a woman's great chance of happiness is in marrying the
man she loves. That's what every woman has a right to do, and nobody has
the right to raise a finger to prevent her. I'll give you to Markeld
with a clear conscience, my dear, when the time comes, and bless you
both. That is, if you really love him."

"Oh, dad!" she cried and hid her face; there is one light in the eyes
which none but a lover may see!

"Quite sure?" he persisted.

"Quite sure!" she said, softly.

"You're sure you're not jumping in the dark; it isn't the Prince you're
in love with?"

"No, dad; it's the man. That seems an awfully bold thing for a girl to
say, doesn't it? But he--he's such a nice fellow!"

"Yes, I believe he is," agreed her father.

"He's been telling me about himself, you know; about what he wants to do
in the world," added Susie, looking up at him.

"Has he?" and her father laughed. "The same old game--effective as ever!
We all do it--why, I remember, Susie--"

He stopped suddenly, with a little tremor in his voice.

"Yes, dad," very softly.

She was leaning forward on his knee, looking up at him. He put his arm
around her and drew her close.

"You're like your mother, Susie," was all he dared trust himself to say,
his arms tight around her.

They sat so a moment, lost in memory, until a knock at the door brought
Susie to her feet. A page handed in a little package.

"For Mademoiselle Rushford," he said.

"Thank you," said Susie, and closed the door. "For me?" she repeated, as
she turned back into the room. "What do you suppose it is?"

"The quickest way to find out is to open it, my dear," suggested her
father, drily.

Susie ripped