pain. There was, after all, much of the highest Christianity about
her, though she would have been very much vexed if any one had told
her so, because Christianity meant to her narrow-mindedness instead of
brotherly love. However it might be, there was no denying that the child
of the great teacher of atheism had grasped the true meaning of life,
had grasped it, and was prepared to act on it too. She had always lived
with those who were ready to spend all in the promotion of the general
good; and all that was true, all that was noble in her creed, all that
had filled her with admiration in the lives of those she loved, came to
her aid now.

She went softly down the dark staircase to Raeburn's study; it was late,
and, anxious not to disturb the rest of the house, she opened the door
noiselessly and crept in. Her father was sitting at his desk writing;
he looked very stern, but there was a sort of grandeur about his rugged
face. He was absorbed in his work and did not hear her, and for a minute
she stood quite still watching him, realizing with pain and yet with
a happy pride how greatly she loved him. Her heart beat fast at the
thought of helping him, lightening his load even a little.

"Father," she said, softly.

Raeburn was the sort of a man who could not be startled, but he looked
up quickly, apparently returning from some speculative region with a
slight effort. He was the most practical of men, and yet for a minute he
felt as if he were living in a dream, for Erica stood beside him, pale
and beautiful, with a sort of heroic light about her whole face which
transformed her from a merry child to a high-souled woman. Instinctively
he rose to speak to her.

"I will not disturb you for more than a minute, father," she said, "it
is only that I have thought of a way in which I think I could help you
if you would let me."

"Well, dear, what is it?" said Raeburn, still watching half dreamily the
exceeding beauty of the face before him. Yet an undefined sense of dread
chilled his heart. Was anything too hard or high for her to propose? He
listened without a word to her account of M. Noirol's Parisian scheme,
to her voluntary suggestion that she should go into exile for two years.
At the end he merely put a brief question. "Are you ready to bear two
years of loneliness?"

"I am ready to help you," she said, with a little quiver in her voice
and a cloud of pain in her eyes.

Raeburn turned away from her and began to pa