"If I remain at home she'll be rather glad than otherwise." "Why ?" inquired the old man quickly.
The girl hesitated.

She saw instantly that her remark was an unfortunate one.

"Well," she said rather lamely, "because my absence will relieve her of the responsibility of acting as chaperon." What else could she say?
How could she tell her father--the kindly but afflicted man to whom she was devoted--the bitter truth?
His lonely, dismal life was surely sufficiently hard to bear without the extra burden of suspicion, of enforced inactivity, of fierce hatred, and of bitter regret.

So she slowly disengaged her hand, kissed him again, and with an excuse that she had the menus to write for the dinner-table, went out, leaving him alone.
When the door had closed a great sigh sounded through the long, book-lined room, a sigh that ended in a sob.
The old man had leaned his chin upon his hands, and his sightless eyes were filled with tears.

"Is it the truth ?" he murmured to himself.