‘My dearest, there are many duties involved in that great duty of honouring your father,’ pleaded Cyril, ‘and perhaps the chief of all is patience. You must be patient, love; the hour of relenting will come at last. Duty and filial love will win their reward. But you must never again speak of your father as you have spoken to-night. It is my duty to forbid this great sin. I could not see you kneeling at the altar rails--and put the sacred cup into your hands--knowing you cherished such a spirit as this.’ ‘I will not disobey you,’ she answered, with a grave humility. ‘I will not speak of my father at all.’ ‘And you will endeavour to think of him with kindness, as you used in the days when you were trying to win his love?’ ‘In those days I used to think of him with fear,’ said Beatrix. ‘The sound of his voice or his footstep always made me shiver. But I had this saying in my mind, “It is natural for a father to love his motherless child,” and I did try very hard, very patiently, to make him love me.’ ‘Go on trying, dearest, and the love will come at last. Remember the parable of the unjust judge. Human love, like heavenly love, is to be won by many prayers. And if I am to be your lover, and your husband, Beatrix, I can only be so with your father’s knowledge and approval. Dearly, deeply as I love you, I will not stoop to win you by deceit and suppression. I would not so dishonour you, I could not so dishonour myself.’ ‘Let me go then,’ cried the girl, passionately. ‘Throw me away as you would throw a withered rose into that river,’ pointing to the dark stream under the Roman arch--shadowy waters on which the distant stars shone dimly,--‘you will never win me with his consent. He will not believe in your love for me. He will misjudge and insult you, for he believes in no man’s truth or honour. He has made for himself a religion of hatred and suspicion. Why should we make him the ruler of our lives--why should we accept misery because he wills us to be miserable? You are quite sure that you love me, Cyril--it is really love and not pity that you feel for me?’ she asked, suddenly, with a gush of womanliness. ‘The truest, fondest, deepest love man ever felt. Will that content you?’ ‘It does more than content me--it makes me exquisitely happy. Then, since you love me, Cyril, and really choose me above all other women--so many of them worthy to be so chosen--for your wife, you must stoop a little. You must be content to take me without my father’s consent, or blessing, and without his money. But we do not care for that, do we, either of us?’ ‘Not a jot, Beatrix. The money is a millstone round your neck. Let that go, with all my heart. But if you and I were to be quietly married some day at the old parish church, darling, and were to walk away together arm in arm into a happy, smiling, useful future, as we might do,--can you guess what the world would say of your husband?’ ‘No--unless it said he was foolish to choose so faulty a wife.’