"Yes," said I, "in a year from now, to stay, the Lord knows how long."

She turned white, then red; and had the strangest look.

"Is it true?" she asked, after a moment, turning to Phil.

"Yes. I am to go next June."

"But father--does he know?"

"I told him this afternoon. He is willing."

"To be sure, to be sure," she said, thoughtfully. "He has no authority
over you. 'Tis different with us. Oh, Phil, if you could only take me
with you!" There was wistful longing and petulant complaint in the
speech. And then, as Phil answered, an idea seemed to come to her all
at once; and she to rise to it by its possibility, rather than to fall
back from its audacity.

"I would gladly," said he; "but your father would never consent that a
Faringfield--"

"Well, one need not always be a Faringfield," she replied, looking him
straight in the face, with a kind of challenge in her voice and eyes.

"Why--perhaps not," said Phil, for the mere sake of agreeing, and
utterly at a loss as to her meaning.

"You don't understand," says she. "A father's authority over his