e turned irritably away, and sat down on the opposite side of the
room.

"It's just part and parcel of your past folly," she began. "If I had
known he was here, and could have seen him or written to him--"

She still encountered the same searching eyes that appeared to be
looking into her very soul.

"Oh, well, if you have nothing to say--"

"I have a great deal to say," answered her father, quietly, "but you
are not ready to hear it yet."

"More lecturing and fault-finding," said Stella, sullenly.

"I have not lectured or found fault. I have warned you and tried to
make you see the truth and to help you."

"And with your usual success. When can we leave this house?"

"We _must_ leave it to-morrow. I will speak in kindness and truth when
you are ready to listen. I know the past; I have little left now but
memory."

He waited some moments, but there was no relenting on her part, and he
passed out.

All the afternoon conscience waged war with anger, shame, pride and
fear--fear for the future, fear of her father, for she had never
before seen him look as he had since he had met her on the piazza
the evening before. He had manifested none of his usual traits of
irritability alternating with a coldness corresponding to her own. He
seemed to have passed beyond these surface indications of trouble
to the condition of one who sees evils that he cannot avert and who
rallies sufficient manhood to meet them with a dignity that bordered
on despair.

As Stella grew calmer she had a growing perception of this truth. He
no longer indulged in vague, half-sincere predictions of disaster. His
aspect was that of a man who was looking at fate.

A cold dread began to creep over her. What was in prospect? Was he,
not Henry Muir, to lose everything? After all, he was her father, her
protector, her only hope for the future. As reason found chance to be
heard, she saw how senseless was her revolt at him. She could not go
on ignoring him any longer. Perhaps it would be best to hear what he
had to say.

This feeling was intensified by her mother, who at last came in and
said, in a weak, half-desperate way, "Stella, there is no use of your
going on in this style any longer. Distressed and worried as I am,
I can see that we can't help matters now by just wringing our hands.
Your father says we must leave as early as possible to-morrow. I can't
do everything to get ready. I'm so unnerved I can scarcely stand now.
Do come down to su