he is always thinking of her. I am not at all like her; Aunt Penniman has told me that. Of course it isn't my fault; but neither is it his fault. All I mean is, it's true; and it's a stronger reason for his never being reconciled than simply his dislike for you."
"'Simply?'" cried Morris, with a laugh, "I am much obliged for that!"
"I don't mind about his disliking you now; I mind everything less. I feel differently; I feel separated from my father."
"Upon my word," said Morris, "you are a queer family!"
"Don't say that—don't say anything unkind," the girl entreated. "You must be very kind to me now, because, Morris—because," and she hesitated a moment—"because I have done a great deal for you."
"Oh, I know that, my dear!"
She had spoken up to this moment without vehemence or outward sign of emotion, gently, reasoningly, only trying to explain. But her emotion had been ineffectually smothered, and it betrayed itself at last in the trembling of her voice. "It is a great thing to be separated like that from
