'Then stay; she loves you.'

'A child's love.'

'She will develop--'

'Not into my wife if I know myself,' said Waring, curtly.

Old Fog sat silent a moment. 'Is she not lovely and good?' he said in
a low voice.

'She is; but she is your daughter as well.'

'She is not.'

'She is not! What then?'.

'I--I do not know; I found her, a baby, by the wayside.'

'A foundling! So much the better, that is even a step lower,' said the
younger man, laughing roughly. And the other crept away as though he
had been struck.

Waring set about his preparations. This time Silver did not suspect
his purpose. She had passed out of the quick, intuitive watchfulness
of childhood. During these days she had taken up the habit of sitting
by herself in the flower-room, ostensibly with her book or sewing; but
when they glanced in through the open door, her hands were lying idle
on her lap and her eyes fixed dreamily on some opening blossom. Hours