daughter. But little by little he became aware that Rebecca was not
flourishing that summer. She had grown pale, and kept much to her
own room. She scarcely ever came into the study, and at last he
fancied that she avoided him.

Then he spoke seriously to her, and begged her to tell him if she
was ill, or if mental troubles of any sort had affected her spirits.

But she only wept, and answered scarcely a word.

After this conversation, however, things went rather better. She
did not keep so much by herself, and was oftener with her father.
But the old ring was gone from her voice, and her eyes were not so
frank as of old.

The Doctor came, and began to cross-question her. She blushed as
red as fire, and at last burst into such a paroxysm of weeping,
that the old gentleman left her room and went down to the Pastor in
his study.

"Well, Doctor, what do you think of Rebecca?"

"Tell me now, Pastor," began the Doctor, diplomatically, "has your
daughter gone through any violent mental crisis--hm--any--"

"Temptation, do you mean?"

"No, not exactly. Has she not had any sort of heartache? Or, to put
it plainly, any love-sorrow?"