not receive her father's sanction; and for some days after that there had been silence on the subject at Humblethwaite, while the correspondence with Mr. Boltby was being continued. Then there came the moment in which Sir Harry felt that he must call upon his daughter to promise obedience, and the conversation which has been described between him and Lady Elizabeth was preparatory to his doing so.
"My dear," he said to his daughter, "sit down: I want to speak to you."
He had sent for her into his own morning-room, in which she did not remember to have been asked to sit down before. She would often visit him there, coming in and out on all manner of small occasions, suggesting that he should ride with her, asking for the loan of a gardener for a week for some project of her own, telling him of a big gooseberry, interrupting him ruthlessly on any trifle in the world. But on such occasions she would stand close to him, leaning on him. And he would scold her playfully, or kiss her, or bid her be gone from the room, but would always grant what she asked of him. To him, though he hardly knew that it was so, such visits from his darling had been the bright moments of his life. But up to this morning he had never bade her be seated in that room.
"Emily," he said, "I hope you understand that all this about your cousin George must be given up." She made no reply, though he waited perhaps for a minute. "It is altogether out of the question. I am very, very sorry that you have been subjected to such a sorrow. I will own that I have been to blame for letting him come to my house."
"No, papa, no."
"Yes, my dear, I have been to blame, and I feel it keenly. I did not then know as much of him as I do now, but I had heard that which should have made me careful to keep him out of your company."
"Hearing about people, papa! Is that fair? Are we not always hearing tales about everybody?"
"My dear child, you must take my word for something."
"I will take it for everything in all the world, papa."
"He has been a thoroughly bad young man."
"But, papa—"
"You must take my word for it when I tell you that I have positive proof of what I am telling you."
"But, papa—"
"Is not that enough?"
"No, papa. I am heartily sorry that he should have been what you call a bad young man. I wish young men weren't so bad—that there were no race-courses and betting, and all that. But if he had been my brother instead of my cousin—"
"Don't talk about your brother, Emily."
"Should we hate him because he has been unsteady? Should we not do all that we could in the world to bring him back? I do not know that we are to hate people because they do what they ought not to do."
"We hate liars."
"He is not a liar. I will not believe it."
"Why did he tell you that he was not at those races, when he was there as surely as you are here? But, my dear, I will not argue about all this with you. It is not right that I should do so. It is my duty to inquire into these things, and yours to believe me and to obey me." Then he paused, but his daughter made no reply to him. He looked into her face, and saw there that mark about the eyes which he knew he so often showed himself—which he so well remembered in his father. "I suppose you do believe me, Emily, when I tell you that he is worthless."
"He need not be worthless always."
"His conduct has been such that he is unfit to be trusted with anything."
"He must be the head of our family some day, papa."
"That is our misfortune, my dear. No one can feel it as I do. But I need not add to it the much greater mis-
