"I remember something of the sort," he answered, reluctantly, frowning still and looking down. "I did not think at the time of what it implied. And when the time drew near for you to make the visit, the question was not raised. We corresponded through a third party--the lawyer, you know. Perhaps--at the time--I had an idea of preventing letters, but not recently. Nobody mentioned it. Why"--his anger rising, as a man's anger often does rise when he perceives himself to have been in the wrong--"your mother might at least have mentioned it if she felt any doubt!" "I suppose," said Lesley, rather haughtily, "that my mother did not want to ask a favor of you." He flung himself round at that. "Your mother must have given you a strange idea of me!" he said, with a mixture of anger and mortification which it humiliated him to show, even while he could not manage to hide it. "One would have said I was an ogre--a maniac. But she misjudged me all her life--it is useless to expect anything else--of course she would try to bias you!" "I never knew that you were even alive until the day that I left the convent," said Lesley. "My mother certainly did not try to prejudice me before then: she simply kept silence." "Silence is the worst condemnation? What had I done that I should be separated from my child so completely?" said the man, the bitterness of years displaying itself in a way as unexpected to him as to his daughter. "It is not my fault, I swear, that I have lived without a wife, without--well, well! it is not you to whom I ought to say this. We will not refer to it again. About this letter writing--I might say, as perhaps I did say at the time the arrangement was made, that surely I had a right to claim you entirely for one year at least; but I don't--I won't. If I did ever say so, Lesley, I regret the words exceedingly. Ever since you came to me, I have had no idea but that you were writing to her regularly and freely; and I never--never in my right mind--wished it otherwise." "But mamma talked of an agreement----" "That was years ago. I must have said something in my heat which the lawyers--the people who arranged things--interpreted wrongly. And your mother, as you say, did not care to ask me for anything. I can only say, Lesley, that I am sorry the mistake arose." His voice was grave and cold again, almost indifferent. He stood with his elbow on the mantelpiece, his hand supporting his head, his eyes averted from the girl. A close eye might have observed that the veins of his forehead were swollen, and the pulse at his temple was beating furiously: otherwise he had mastered all signs of agitation. Lesley hesitated a moment: then came up to him, and put her slim fingers into his hand. "Father," she said, softly, "if we _have_ misjudged you--mamma and I--won't you forgive us?" For answer he took her face between his two hands, bent down and kissed it tenderly.