there was an end. But to tell the truth would be to wound her father, to
vex him against Eglington even as he had never yet been vexed. Besides,
it was hard, while Eglington was there, to tell what, after all, was the
sole affair of her own life. In one literal sense, Eglington was not
guilty of deceit. Never in so many words had he said to her: "I love
you;" never had he made any promise to her or exacted one; he had done no
more than lure her to feel one thing, and then to call it another thing.
Also there was no direct and vital injury, for she had never loved him;
though how far she had travelled towards that land of light and trial she
could never now declare. These thoughts flashed through her mind as she
stood looking at her father. Her tongue seemed imprisoned, yet her soft
and candid eyes conquered the austerity in the old man's gaze.

Eglington spoke for her.

"Permit me to answer, neighbour," he said. "I wished to speak with
your daughter, because I am to be married soon, and my wife will, at
intervals, come here to live. I wished that she should not be shunned
by you and yours as I have been. She would not understand, as I do not.
Yours is a constant call to war, while all your religion is an appeal for
peace. I wished to ask your daughter to influence you to make it
possible for me and mine to live in friendship among you. My wife will
have some claims upon you. Her mother was an American, of a Quaker
family from Derbyshire. She has done nothing to merit your aversion."

Faith listened astonished and baffled. Nothing of this had he said to
her. Had he meant to say it to her? Had it been in his mind? Or was it
only a swift adaptation to circumstances, an adroit means of working upon
the sympathies of her father, who, she could see, was in a quandary?
Eglington had indeed touched the old man as he had not been touched in