"You have the quality," he said, "which I admire most in your sex, and
find most seldom. You are candid. You come from a little world where
sentiment almost governs life. It is not so here. I am a kind man, I
believe, but I am also just. My daughter deceived me, and for deceit I
have no forgiveness. Do you still think me cruel, Virginia?"

"I am wondering," she answered frankly. "You see, I have read about you
in the papers, and I was terribly frightened when mother told me that I
was to come. Directly I saw you, you seemed quite a different person,
and now again I am afraid."

"Ah!" he sighed, "that terrible Press of ours! They told you, I suppose,
that I was hard, unscrupulous, unforgiving, a money-making machine, and
all the rest of it. Do you think that I look like that, Virginia?"

"I am very sure that you do not," she answered.

"You will know me better, I hope, in a year or so's time," he said. "If
you wish to please me, there are two things which you have to remember,
and which I expect from you. One is absolute, implicit obedience, the
other is absolute, unvarying truth. You will never, I think, have cause
to complain of me, if you remember those two things."

"I will try," she murmured.

Her thoughts suddenly flitted back to the poor little home from which
she had come with such high hopes. She thought of the excitement which
had followed the coming of her uncle's letter; the hopes that her
harassed, overworked father had built upon it; the sudden, almost
trembling joy which had come into her mother's thin, faded face. Her