Her father would never speak to her again, or ever own for his a daughter that had done such a deed.

Like icy water poured upon a fevered body, the idea chilled her and woke her to reality.
Did she love her father?
She had loved him--yes, until she crossed his will.

She loved him still, when she could be so horror-struck at the thought of incurring his lasting anger.

Could she bear it?
Could she find in her lover all that she must renounce of a father's care and a father's affection,--stern affection, that savoured of the despot,--but could she hurt him so?
The image of her father seemed to take another shape, and gradually to assume the form and features of the one man of the world whom she hated, converting itself little by little into Benoni.

She hid her face in her hands and terror staunched the tears that had flown afresh at the thought of orphanhood.
A knock at the door.