and then you put me down, and I stand
crying 'Daddy, daddy,' after you, when you are called away somewhere.
Oh, then--then, oh, I know that then--I don't know where you went nor
anything, but then, then when I snuggled up to you, surely you would
have heard me if I had asked you what I am asking now."

The daughter paused, but the father did not answer at once. He looked
away from her across the years. In the silence Lila was aware that in
the doorway back of her father, Margaret Van Dorn stood listening. Her
husband did not know that she was there.

"Lila," he began, "you have told me that Kenyon's father is Grant Adams,
why do you shield his mother?"

The daughter stood looking intently into the brazen eyes of her father,
trying to find some way into his heart. "Father, Grant Adams is before
your court. He is the father of the man whom I shall marry. You have a
right to know all there is to know about Grant Adams." She shook her
head decisively. "But Kenyon's mother, that has nothing to do with what
I am asking you!" She paused, then cried passionately: "Kenyon's
mother--oh, father, that's some poor woman's secret, which has no
bearing on this case. If you had any right on earth to know, I should
tell you; but you have no right."

"Now, Lila," answered her father petulantly--"look here--why do you get
entangled with those Adamses? They are a low lot. Girl, a Van Dorn has
no business stooping to marry an Adams. Miserable mongrel blood is that
Adams blood child. Why the Van Dorns--" but Lila's pleading, wistful
voice went on:

"In all my life, father, I have asked you only this one thing, and this
is just, you know how just it is--that you keep my future husband's
father from a cruel, shameful death. And--now--" her voice was
quivering, near the breaking point, and she cried: "And now, now you
bring in blood and family. What are they in an hour like this! Oh,
father--father, would my daddy--the fine, strong, loving daddy of my
dreams do this? Would he--would he--oh, daddy--daddy--daddy!" she cried,
beseechingly.

Perhaps he could see in her face the consciousness that some one was
behind him, for he turned and saw his wife standing in the doorway. As
he saw her, there rose in him the familiar devil she always aroused,
which in the first years wore the mask of love, but dropped that mask
for the sneer of hate. It was the devil's own voice that spoke, quietly,
suavely, and with a hardness that chilled his daughter