“I believe you, Marcia. I understand. The thing had to be. Let me see your marriage certificate.” She ran up to her room and fetched it. Her father read it carefully. “Yes, that is all right,” he said, and returned it to her. He added, after an absent pause: “I have brought your things, Marcia. Your mother packed all she could think of.” “How _is_ mother?” asked Marcia, as if this had first reminded her of her mother. “She is usually well,” replied her father. “Won't you--won't you come up and see our room, father?” Marcia asked, after the interval following this feint of interest in her mother. “No,” said the old man, rising restlessly from his chair, and buttoning at his coat, which was already buttoned. “I guess I sha'n't have time. I guess I must be going.” Marcia put herself between him and the door. “Won't you let me tell you about it, father?” “About what?” “How--I came to go off with Bartley. I want you should know.” “I guess I know all I want to know about it, Marcia. I accept the facts. I told you how I felt. What you've done hasn't changed me toward you. I understand you better than you understand yourself; and I can't say that I'm surprised. Now I want you should make the best of it.” “You don't forgive Bartley!” she cried, passionately. “Then I don't want you should forgive me!” “Where did you pick up this nonsense about forgiving?” said her father, knitting his shaggy brows. “A man does this thing or that, and the consequence follows. I couldn't forgive Bartley so that he could escape any consequence of what he's done; and you're not afraid I shall hurt him?” “Stay and see him!” she pleaded. “He is so kind to me! He works night and day, and he has just gone out to sell something he has written for the papers.” “I never said he was lazy,” returned her father. “Do you want any money, Marcia?” “No, we have plenty. And Bartley is earning it all the time. I _wish_ you would stay and see him!” “No, I'm glad he didn't happen to be in,” said the Squire. “I sha'n't wait for him to come back. It wouldn't do any good, just yet, Marcia; it would only do harm. Bartley and I haven't had time to change our minds about each other yet. But I'll say a good word for him to you. You're his wife, and it's your part to help him, not to hinder him. You can make him worse by being a fool; but you needn't be a fool. Don't worry him about other women; don't be jealous. He's your husband, now: and the worst thing you can do is to doubt him.” “I won't, father, I won't, indeed! I will be good, and I will try to be sensible. Oh, I _wish_ Bartley could know how you feel!” “Don't tell him from _me_,” said her father. “And don't keep making promises and breaking them. I'll help the man in with your things.”