hed a great sigh, and laid his hand upon her head. Then he
turned his face away from her--to hide his eyes, she fancied.

'You are in trouble,' she went on. 'It is not kind to keep it from me.
Is it anything that I have done, or anything I could do.'

'No, no, my darling,' he said softly, laying his hand upon her head
again.

'Is it money, dear?'

'No, no. It isn't money. Don't talk about it, my dear. Don't talk about
it.'

'Now, papa, you make me think it very grave indeed.'

'There,' he said, rising, 'you shan't see any more of it, and we'll say
no more about it Well be gay and bright again, and well hope that things
will turn out for the best.'

The attempt to be gay and bright again resulted in most mournful
failure, and the girl grew frightened. She had nursed her fears for many
days, and had hidden them.

'Papa!' she said, trembling ever so little, 'you must let me know what
it is. Let us bear it together, dear. Whatever it may be it can't matter
very much if it leaves us two together--and----'

'Ah! 'said old Brown, looking at her with a pitying smile.

'Is it anything----?' She stopped short, and really found no courage to
complete the question.

'My darling,' he answered, folding her in his arms, and staring sadly
over her shoulder. She felt the hands that embraced her quiver, and she
knew he had understood her half-expressed query. This frightened her so
much that it gave her boldness.

'There is something the matter with Phil,' she said, pushing the old man
away, and holding him at arm's length. 'Tell me what it is.'

'My dear,' he answered, 'you shouldn't leap at conclusions in that way.'
But the disclaimer was altogether too feeble to deceive her. Philip
was the mysterious cause of her father's trouble. Her wandering, pained
eyes, her parted lips, the terror and inquiry in her face, frightened
the old man. 'No, no,' he cried, 'you must not think it too bad. I'm not
sure of anything. I don't suppose it's at all a matter of consequence. I
daresay he's an old fool. I hope I am.'

These hints and innuendoes were about the last thing in the world to
satisfy a girl who had been made anxious about her lover.

'Tell me,' she commanded. 'I have a right to know. What has happened?'
She was no more inclined to be jealous than girls who are in love
commonly are. She had, indeed, a native fund of confidence, and her
trust in Phil's loyalty had been of the unquestioning sort, quite
profound and settled