is murder, and it is done by my father." She held her head proudly,
but the notes of her voice were straining. "I knew nothing of this
yesterday. I was a foolish girl who thought all men were good and
just, and that all those whom I knew were noble. My eyes are open now.
I see injustice being done by my own household, and"--tears were
trembling near her lashes, but she blinked them back--"and I am no
longer a foolish girl! You need not try to deceive me. You must tell
me what I can do, for I cannot permit so great a wrong to be done by
my father without attempting to set it right." This was not what she
had intended to say, but suddenly the course was clear to her. The
influence of the man had again swept over her, drowning her will,
filling her with the old fear, which was now for the moment turned to
pride by the character of the situation.

But to her surprise the man was thinking of something else.

"Who told you?" he demanded, harshly. Then, without waiting for a
reply, "It was that little preacher; I'll have an interview with him!"

"No, no!" protested the girl. "It was not he. It was a friend. I had
the right to know."

"You had no right!" he cried, vehemently. "You and life should have
nothing to do with each other. There is a look in your eyes that was
not in them yesterday, and the one who put it there is not your
friend." He stood staring at her intently, as one who ponders what is
best to do. Then very quietly he took her hands and drew her to a
place beside him on the bowlder.

"I am going to tell you something, little girl," said he, "and you