“He told me.” She stood up. “He told you? When?” “To-night.” “Why, where--where did you see him?” she whispered. “In the office.” “Since--since--I came? Bartley been here! And you didn't tell me,--you didn't let me know?” They looked at each other in silence. At last, “When is he going?” she asked. “To-morrow morning.” She sat down in the chair which her mother had left, and clutched the back of another, on which her fingers opened and closed convulsively, while she caught her breath in irregular gasps. She broke into a low moaning, at last, the expression of abject defeat in the struggle she had waged with herself. Her father watched her with dumb compassion. “Better go to bed, Marcia,” he said, with the same dry calm as if he had been sending her away after some pleasant evening which she had suffered to run too far into the night. “Don't you think--don't you think--he'll have to see you again before he goes?” she made out to ask. “No; he's finished up with me,” said the old man. “Well, then,” she cried, desperately, “you'll have to go to him, father, and get him to come! I can't help it! I can't give him up! You've got to go to him, now, father,--yes, yes, you have! You've got to go and tell him. Go and get him to come, for _mercy's_ sake! Tell him that I'm sorry,--that I beg his pardon,--that I didn't think--I didn't understand,--that I knew he didn't do anything wrong--” She rose, and, placing her hand on her father's shoulder, accented each entreaty with a little push. He looked up into her face with a haggard smile of sympathy. “You're crazy, Marcia,” he said, gently. “Don't laugh!” she cried. “I'm not crazy now. But I was, then,--yes, stark, staring crazy. Look here, father! I want to tell you,--I want to explain to you!” She dropped upon his knee again, and tremblingly passed her arm round his neck. “You see, I had just told him the day before that I shouldn't care for anything that happened before we were engaged, and then at the very first thing I went and threw him off! And I had no right to do it. He knows that, and that's what makes him so hard towards me. But if you go and tell him that I see now I was all wrong, and that I beg his pardon, and then ask him to give me _one_ more trial, just one _more_--You can do as much as that for me, can't you?” “Oh, you poor, crazy girl!” groaned her father. “Don't you see that the trouble is in what the fellow _is_, and not in any particular thing that he's done? He's a scamp, through and through; and he's all the more a scamp when he doesn't know it. He hasn't got the first idea of anything but selfishness.”