won into human nature was so desolating that his heart ached for
sympathy and affection. He loved her; she was to be his wife; how could
he help winning her to his side? Besides, her words voiced his own
fears--her father had already begun to try to part them. She must know
all and judge. But how? Should he give her "The Tribune" to read? No--it
was vindictive.

"Come and sit down, May, and I'll tell you what happened yesterday. You
shall judge for yourself whether I was right or wrong."

He told her, point by point, what had occurred. May listened in silence
till he stopped.

"But why did he resign? What could he gain by that?"

While she was speaking a thought crimsoned her cheeks; she had found the
key to the enigma. Three nights before her father had talked of
Washington and the East with a sort of exultation. At the time she had
not paid much attention to this, though it had struck her as very
different from his habit. Now the peculiarity of it confirmed her
suspicion. In some way or other his action in resigning was connected
with his inexplicable high spirits. A wave of indignation swept over
her. Not that she felt the disgust which had sickened the Professor when
he first heard of the traitorism. He had condemned Mr. Hutchings on the
grounds of public morality; May's anger was aroused because her father
had sought to deceive _her_; had tried by lying suggestion to take
credit to himself, whereas--

"I wouldn't have believed it," she murmured, with the passionate revolt
of youth against mean deceit. "I can never forgive him or trust him