"Then--why--" Frances put her hands up to her throat. Her father swept his arm about her and half lifted her into the dining-room and into the kitchen beyond. They would have no scene which that rascal there could look upon--the professor never varied his term again--say no wild words he could hear. The kitchen was deserted, Susan abed. The father put his daughter down in the darkey's old flag chair beside the stove where the fire yet gleamed. "God only knows," he groaned, "how it was we never knew it." "Did he tell you?" whispered Frances. "Yes, he told me," grimly, "he asked me--he said he had your consent, Frances." The girl, white, wide-eyed, nodded her answer. "It would have been hard--but you know--you know--" She felt for his hand on her shoulder and clasped it, she knew he would do anything he felt would make for her happiness. "I had not thought much; I had not even--I had thought--" he blundered, daring no word of what he had borne dimly in mind. "How blind I have been! I should have known!" There was dead silence between them, only the crackling of the dying fire in the stove. The dark was insupportable. The professor felt for the electric bulb and flashed up the light; it gave him courage. "When he first spoke, I was dumbfounded. I asked him if"--he came back to his daughter's side. "He told me"-- Again the silence. "Then he began to speak of settlements, _settlements_! He hesitated along time, and then he said, 'You know, I suppose, I am a divorced man!' I felt--" He clenched his hands, the veins stood out in his forehead. No need to put the emotion into words. Frances got to her feet and pushed back her chair. "Where are you going?" "To speak to him!" "You shall not!" "I shall!" She walked past him, drew a glass of water from the spigot above the kitchen sink and drank it. "I must!" she said more gently, "and, father, you must trust me. No!" as he made some motion to follow her, "I shall need no help!" proudly. She went in by the door through which she had left, went softly, and Lawson did not hear her. He stood before the fire waiting, all his soul burned and scorched with the agony he had felt when first he faced what, spite of his brave words and courage, would ever be to his inmost self a stigma--waiting! For one instant all her heart cried out for him, as she saw the attitude, the droop of his face, unlike the bravado she had sometimes thought too gay. Then she went across to him. He had not dared to turn. That first look, he knew, would tell him all. He had not dared. She stood near. "Mr. Lawson." Ah, that tone told the tale! He held himself upright and turned to look at her calmly. "My father has just told me," she began; then, one look into his eyes at the suffering she saw there, "Why, oh why did you do it?" she cried, as she flung herself into a chair. Lawson never touched her, never spoke, though she was sobbing bitterly; but when the sobs quieted, "Do what?" he asked coldly.