Her hand trembled a little as she lighted her candle, but she made no comment. “Good night, papa. To-morrow it will all seem different. Everything is strange to-night.” He put his hands upon her shoulders and looked down into the little serious face, the face that had never been so serious before. “Don’t think any worse of me, Frances, than you can help.” Her eyes opened wider with astonishment. “Think of you, worse---- But, papa, I am not thinking of you at all,” she said, simply; “I am thinking of _it_.” Waring had gone through a number of depressing and humbling experiences during the course of the evening, but this was the unkindest of all--and it was so natural. Frances was no critic. She was not thinking of his conduct, which was the first thing in his mind, but of IT, the revelation which had been made to her. He might have perceived that, or divined it, if he had not been occupied by this idea, which did not occupy her at all--the thought of how he personally had come through the business. He gave a little faltering laugh at himself as he stooped and kissed her. “That’s all right,” he said. “Good night; but don’t let IT interfere with your sleep. To-morrow everything will look different, as you say.” Frances turned away with her light in her hand; but before she had reached the door, returned again. “I think I ought to tell you, papa, that I am sure the Durants know. They said a number of strange things to me yesterday, which I think I understand now. If you don’t mind, I would rather let them suppose that I knew all the time; otherwise, it looks as if you thought you could not trust me.” “I could trust you,” he said, with a little fervour,--“my dear child, my dear little girl--I would trust you with my life.”