"Ah--this clears the atmosphere; we can talk. Of course, you know with Cale's story dovetailing so perfectly into what I told you on my first making acquaintance with you, I simply had to put two and two together; besides, your smile was a constant reminder of some one whom I had known or met--but whom I could not recall try as hard as I might. The result of it all was that I went to Delia Beaseley and put a few questions. Now,"--he hesitated a moment; he seemed to brace himself mentally in order to continue,--"do you know positively whether your father is living or dead? Have you ever known?" "No; but dead to me even if living--that is why I said I was an orphan." "I understand; but you don't know either the one or the other for a fact?" "No; I have no idea." "You never knew his name?" "No; and none of the family knew it--you know what Cale said. He gave me the details for the first time." "You do not know, then, that I have in my possession some papers that might give the name?" "Yes; I know that. But I told Delia Beaseley not to mention that fact to you, or the papers in any way." "Why?" "_Why?_" I think all the bitterness of my past must have been concentrated in the tone in which I uttered that syllable. He did not press for the reason, and I did not offer to give it. "Did it ever occur to you that your father might be living?" "I have no father, living or dead," I replied passionately. "I own to no such possession. Does a man, simply because he chooses to pursue his pleasure, unmindful of results, acquire the right to fatherhood when he assumes no responsibility for his act?" "Marcia, poor child, has life been so hard for you? Has nothing compensated for just living?" He knew he was searching my very soul. I knew it; and the thought of my joy in life, in just living, because of my love that was filling every minute of the day and part of the night with a happiness so intense that, sometimes, I feared it could not endure from its sheer intensity, brought the tears to my eyes, softened my heart, turned for the moment the bitter to sweet. I answered, but with lips that trembled in spite of my efforts at control: "Yes, there is compensation, full, free, abundant. For all that life has taken out of me, it has replaced ten thousand fold. Perhaps I never had what we call 'life' till now." "Oh, child, I have seen this happiness in your face--would to God I might add to it!" His face worked strangely with emotion. "Marcia, dear, I am the friend, but also the surgeon. I have to use the knife--" "But not on me--not on me!" I cried out in protest. "Don't tell me you know who my father is or was--don't, if you are my friend; don't speak his name to me." "Why not, Marcia?" "I must not hear it; I will not hear it--will not, do you understand? I am trying to forget that past, live in my present joy--don't, please don't tell me." I covered my eyes with my hands. He drew down my hands from before my face.