“What difference?” she demanded, scornfully. There was truly no difference, so far as concerned any creed of his, and he was too honest to make further pretence. “What shall I do?” she went on again. “I've thought of praying; but what would be the use?” “I've never denied that there was a God, Marcia,” said her father. “Oh, I know. _That_ kind of God! Well, well! I know that I talk like a crazy person! Do you suppose it was providential, my being with you in the office that morning when Bartley came in?” “No,” said her father, “I don't. I think it was an accident.” “Mother said it was providential, my finding him out before it was too late.” “I think it was a good thing. The fellow has the making of a first-class scoundrel in him.” “Do you think he's a scoundrel now?” she asked quietly. “He hasn't had any great opportunity yet,” said the old man, conscientiously sparing him. “Well, then, I'm sorry I found him out. Yes! If I hadn't, I might have married him, and perhaps if I had died soon I might never have found him out. He could have been good to me a year or two, and then, if I died, I should have been safe. Yes, I wish he could have deceived me till after we were married. Then I _couldn't_ have borne to give him up, may be.” “You _would_ have given him up, even then. And that's the only thing that reconciles me to it now. I'm sorry for you, my girl; but you'd have made me sorrier then. Sooner or later he'd have broken your heart.” “He's broken it now,” said the girl, calmly. “Oh, no, he hasn't,” replied her father, with a false cheerfulness that did not deceive her. “You're young and you'll get over it. I mean to take you away from here for a while. I mean to take you up to Boston, and on to New York. I shouldn't care if we went as far as Washington. I guess, when you've seen a little more of the world, you won't think Bartley Hubbard's the only one in it.” She looked at him so intently that he thought she must be pleased at his proposal. “Do you think I could get him back?” she asked. Her father lost his patience; it was a relief to be angry. “No, I don't think so. I know you couldn't. And you ought to be ashamed of mentioning such a thing!” “Oh, ashamed! No, I've got past that. I have no shame any more where he's concerned. Oh, I'd give the world if I could call him back,--if I could only undo what I did! I was wild; I wasn't reasonable; I wouldn't listen to him. I drove him away without giving him a chance to say a word! Of course, he must hate me now. What makes you think he wouldn't come back?” she asked. “I know he wouldn't,” answered her father, with a sort of groan. “He's going to leave Equity for one thing, and--” “Going to leave Equity,” she repeated, absently Then he felt her tremble. “How do you know he's going?” She turned upon her father, and fixed him sternly with her eyes. “Do you suppose he would stay, after what's happened, any longer than he could help?” “How do you know he's going?” she repeated.