not insult the young man to his face for loving my daughter."

"Let me hear what Mary says," was Hope's reply.

"Mr. Hope," said Mary, "did you ever know papa to be hard on me before?
He is vexed because he feels I am lowered. We have both been grossly
insulted, and he may well be in a passion. But I am very unhappy." And
she began to cry again.

"My poor child," said Bartley, coaxingly, "talk it all over with Mr.
Hope. He may be able to comfort you, and, indeed, to advise me. For what
can I do when the man calls me a sharper, a villain, and a knave, before
his son and my daughter?"

"Is it possible?" said Hope, beginning to relent a little.

"It is true," replied Mary.

Bartley then drew Hope aside, and said, "See what confidence I place in
you. Now show me my trust is not misplaced." Then he left them together.

Hope came to Mary and said, tenderly, "What can I say or do to
comfort you?"

Mary shook her head. "I asked you to mend my prospects; but you can't do
that. They are desperate. You can do nothing for me now but comfort me
with your kind voice. And mend my poor wrist--ha! ha! ha! oh! oh!"
(Hysterical.)

"What?" cried Hope, in sudden alarm; "is it hurt? Is it sprained?"

Mary recovered her composure. "Oh no," said she; "only twisted a little.
Papa was so rough."

Hope went into a rage again. "Perdition!" cried he. "I'll go and end this
once for all."

"You will do nothing of the kind," said the quick-witted girl. "Oh, Mr.
Hope, would you break my heart altogether, quarrelling with papa? Be
reasonable. I tell you he couldn't help it, that old monster insulted him
so. It hurts, for all that," said she, naively, and held him out a lovely
white wrist with a red mark on it.

Hope inspected it. "Poor little wrist," said he. "I think I can cure it."
Then he went into his office for something to bind it with.

But he had spoken those few words as one speaks to an afflicted child.
There was a mellow softness and an undisguised paternity in his
tones--and what more natural, the girl being in pain?

But Mary's ear was so acute that these tones carried her out of the
present situation, and seemed to stir the depths of memory. She fell into
a little reverie, and asked herself had she not heard a voice like that
many years ago.

She was puzzling herself a little over this when Hope returned with a
long thin band of white Indian cotton, steeped in water, and, taking her
hand gently, began to bind her wrist