afresh.

I could not plead against hysterics. I was afraid she would get ill.
I thought nobody was in the house, and I rushed across the passage to
get her some stimulants. When I came back her father was in the room.
He was my aversion--a fussy, conceited man, who always prated about "my
daughter" to me in a tone which was very repulsive--just as if she were
his property, and he were her natural protector against me.

"Mr. Rutherford," he cried, "what is the matter with my daughter? What
have you said to her?"

"I don't think, sir, I am bound to tell you. It is a matter between
Ellen and myself."

"Mr. Rutherford, I demand an explanation. Ellen is mine. I am her
father."

"Excuse me, sir, if I desire not to have a scene here just now. Ellen
is unwell. When she recovers she will tell you. I had better leave,"
and I walked straight out of the house.

Next morning I had a letter from her father to say, that whether I was
a Unitarian or not, my behaviour to Ellen showed I was bad enough to be
one. Anyhow, he had forbidden her all further intercourse with me.
When I had once more settled down in my solitude, and came to think
over what had happened, I felt the self-condemnation of a criminal
without being able to accuse myself of a crime. I believe with Miss
Arbour that it is madness for a young man who finds out he has made a
blunder, not to set it right; no matter what the wrench may be. But