"Don't papa. Oh, pray don't!"--and then I was obliged to tell him the reason why. I had to put it very plainly before he understood--he forgets things now sometimes. "Starving, did you say?--Mrs. Cartwright, Lydia, and the child?--What child?" "Francis's." Then he comprehended,--and, oh, Max, had I been the girl I was a few months ago, I should have sunk to the earth with the shame he said I ought to feel at even alluding to such things. But I would not stop to consider this, or to defend myself; the matter concerned not me, but Lydia. I asked papa if he did not remember Lydia? She came to us, Max, when she was only fourteen, though, being well-grown and hand some, she looked older;--a pleasant, willing, affectionate creature, only she had "no head," or it was half-turned by the admiration her beauty gained, not merely among her own class, but all our visitors. I remember Francis saying once--oh, how angry Penelope was about it--that Lydia was so naturally elegant she could be made a lady of in no time, if a man liked to take her, educate and marry her. Would he had done it! spite of all broken vows to Penelope. I think my sister herself might have for given him, if he had only honestly fallen in love with poor Lydia, and married her. These things I tried to recall to papa's mind, but he angrily bade me be silent. "I cannot," I said, "because, if we had taken better care of the girl, this might never have happened. When I think of her--her pleasant ways about the house--how she used to go singing over her work of mornings--poor innocent young thing--oh, papa! papa!" "Dora," he said, eyeing me closely; "what change has come over you of late?" I said, I did not know, unless it was that which must come over people who have been very unhappy--the wish to save other people as much unhappiness as they can. "Explain yourself. I do not understand." When he did, he said abruptly,-- "Stop. It was well you waited to consult with me. If your own delicacy does not teach you better, I must. My daughter--the daughter of the clergyman of the parish--cannot possibly be allowed to interfere with these profligates." My heart sunk like lead:-- "But you, papa? They are here; you, as the rector, must do something. What shall you do?" He thought a little. "I shall forbid them the church and the sacrament; omit them from my charities; and take every lawful means to get them out of the neighbourhood. This, for my family's sake, and the parish's--that they may carry their corruption elsewhere." "But they may not be wholly corrupt. And the child--that innocent, unfortunate child!" "Silence, Dora. It is written, _The seed of evil-doers shall never be renowned_. The sinless must suffer with the guilty; there is no hope for either." "Oh, papa," I cried, in an agony, "Christ did not say so. He said, 'Go, and sin no more.'" Was I wrong? If I was, I suffered for it. What followed was very hard to bear.