“You appear to me, a monster of selfishness,” Wesley Elliot broke in. “You ought to stop thinking of yourself and think of her.” Bolton’s face drew itself into the mirthless wrinkles which passed for a smile. “I’m coming to that,” he said with some eagerness. “I do think of her; and that’s why— Can’t you see, man, that eighteen years of prison don’t grow the domestic virtues? A monster of selfishness? You’re dead right. I’m all of that; and I’m too old to change. I can’t play the part of a doting father. I thought I could, before I got out; but I can’t. Twice I’ve been tempted to knock her down, when she stood between me and the door.... Keep cool; I didn’t do it! But I’m afraid of myself, I tell you. I’ve got to have my liberty. She can have hers.... Now here’s my proposition: Lydia’s got money. I don’t know how much. My brother-in-law was a close man. Never even knew he was rich. But she’s got it—all but what she’s spent here trying to square accounts, as she thought. Do they thank her for it? Not much. I know them! But see here, you marry Lydia, whenever you like; then give me ten thousand dollars, and I’ll clear out. I’m not a desirable father-in-law; I know that, as well as you do. But I’ll guarantee to disappear, once my girl is settled. Is it a bargain?” Elliot shook his head. “Your daughter doesn’t love me,” he said. Bolton flung up his hand in an impatient gesture of dissent. “I stood in the way,” he said. “She was thinking of me, don’t you see? But if I get out— Oh, I promise you I’ll make myself scarce, once this matter is settled.” “What you propose is impossible, on the face of it,” the minister said slowly. “I am sorry—” “Impossible! Why impossible?” shouted Bolton, in a sudden fury. “You’ve been courting my daughter—don’t try to crawl out of it, now you know what I am. I’ll not stand in the way, I tell you. Why, the devil—” He stopped short, his restless eyes roving over the young man’s face and figure: “Oh, I see!” he sneered. “I begin to understand: ‘the sanctity of the cloth’—‘my sacred calling’— Yes, yes! And perhaps my price seems a bit high: ten thousand dollars—” Elliot sprang from his chair and stood over the cringing figure of the ex-convict. “I could strike you,” he said in a smothered voice; “but you are an old man and—not responsible. You don’t understand what you’ve said, perhaps; and I’ll not try to make you see it as I do.” “I supposed you were fond of my girl,” mumbled Bolton. “I heard you tell her—” But the look in the younger man’s eyes stopped him. His hand sought his heart in an uncertain gesture. “Have you any brandy?” he asked feebly. “I—I’m not well.... No matter; I’ll go over to the tavern. I’ll have them take me home. Tired, after all this; don’t feel like walking.” Chapter XX.