The conflict was very terrible; nor would Max himself have wished it less. They who do not love their own flesh and blood, with whom they have lived ever since they were born, how can they know what any love is? We heard papa call us:--"Come in, you girls! The sun is down, and the dews are falling." Penelope put her hand softly on my head. "Hush, child, hush! Steal into your own room, and quiet yourself. I will go and explain things to your father." I was sure she must have done it in the best and gentlest way; Penelope does everything so wisely and gently now; but when she came to look for me, I knew, before she said a word, that it had been done in vain. "Dora, you must go yourself and reason with him. But take heed what you say and what you do. There is hardly a man on this earth for whom it is worth forsaking a happy home and a good father." And truly, if I had ever had the least doubt of Max, or of our love for one another; if I had not felt as it were already married to him, who had no tie in the whole wide world but me--I never could have nerved myself to say what I did say to my father. If, in the lightest word, it was unjust, unloving or undutiful--may God forgive me, for I never meant it! My heart was breaking almost--but I only wanted to hold fast to the right, as I saw it, and as, so seeing it, I could not but act. "So, I understand you wish to leave your father?" "Papa!--papa!" "Do not argue the point. I thought that folly was all over now. It must be over. Be a good girl, and forget it. There!" I suppose I must have turned very white, for I felt him take hold of me, and press me into a chair beside him. But it would not do to let my strength go. "Papa, I want your consent to my marriage with Dr. Urquhart. He would come and ask you himself; but he is too ill. We have waited a long time, and suffered much. He is not young, and I feel old--quite old myself, sometimes. Do not part us any more." This was, as near as I can recollect, what I said--said very quietly and humbly, I know it was; for my father seemed neither surprised nor angry; but he sat there as hard as a stone, repeating only, "It _must_ be over." "Why?" He answered by one word:--"_Harry_" "No other reason?" "None." Then I dared to speak out plain, even to my father. "Papa, you said, publicly, you had forgiven him for the death of Harry." "But I never said I should forget." "Ay, there it is!" I cried out bitterly. "People say they forgive, but they cannot forget. It would go hard with some of us if the just God dealt with us in like manner." "You are profane." "No! only I am not afraid to bring God's truth into all the circumstances of life, and to judge them by it. I believe,--if Christ came into the world to forgive sinners, we ought to forgive them too."