s not a simple one, so I use a style
fitted to the subject," answered Irene, and she sat down in one
of the armchairs, erect, her hands on her knees, motionless,
between the wide and heavy arms of the chair.

"The subject of which I have to speak with you, father, is much
involved and delicate. Do you not share my opinion, that one may
commit what is commonly called an offence and still possess a
noble heart, and suffer greatly? In common opinion this suffering
is a just punishment, or penance for the offence committed, but I
consider this opinion as a painted pot, for everything in this
world is so involved, so vain, and relative."

She spoke with perfect calmness, but at the last words she
shrugged her shoulders slightly. Darvid looked at her with dazed
eyes.

"How is this?" began he, in a low voice. "You--you--have you come
to talk to me--about this? Do you know? Do you understand? And
have you come to talk about--this?"

"My father," answered Irene, "to bring our conversation to any
result we must first of all push away painted pots from between
us."

"What does that mean?" asked Darvid.

"What does it mean? What are painted pots? They are little dabs
of wretched clay, but painted in beautiful colors; they are just
what naivete, bashfulness, modesty, and darned socks like them
would be to-day in my case."

She laughed.

"I have known all that has happened this long time. I was a
little girl, in a corner of a room, dressing a doll, when a
certain conversation between you and mamma struck my ears, and
helped me considerably to understand what took place afterward.
Because of business and difficulties which swallowed your time
you were ever absent, father. Oh, I have no thought of
criticising you, no thought whatever. Here a question of logic
presents itself, simple logic. You were chasing after that which
was your happiness, the delight of your life, while mamma--poor
mamma stooped to pick up also for herself a little happiness and
delight. But your happiness and delight were open, brilliant,
triumphant, while mamma's were always full of darkness, poison,
and shame."

For the first time in that conversation her voice quivered; and,
inclining her face, she brushed away from her dress, with the
rosy tips of her fingers, some bit of dust that had dropped on
it; then again she gazed with a look clear and calm at her
father, who had sat down in front of her.

"To convince you, father," continued she, "that