"I cannot tell you just now. She had a--a--fairly good reason." "I thought she must have had that," said Lesley, brightening. "And did she come here to explain?" "Partly." "But why not to us?" Caspar laid down his pen suddenly, and laughed. "Oh, the insatiable curiosity of women! I thought you were wiser than most, Lesley, but you have all the characteristics of your sex. I can't satisfy your curiosity, to-day, but I will, if I can, in a short time. Will that do?" Lesley seemed rather hurt. "I don't think I asked questions out of mere curiosity," she said. "I always liked Kingston." "And she likes you, my dear--so far you were perfectly right," said her father, rising, and patting her on the arm. "To use your feminine parlance, she is quite as 'fond' of you as you can reasonably desire." "I don't like to hear so much about 'feminine' ways and characteristics," said Lesley, smiling, and recovering her spirits. "I always fancy somebody has vexed you when you talk in that cynical manner." "That remark is creditable to your penetration," said Mr. Brooke, in his accustomed tone of gentle raillery, "and, you cannot say that it is not a very harmless way of letting off steam." "Who has vexed you then?" said Lesley, looking keenly into his face. It was a bold question, but her father did not look displeased. "Suppose I said--you yourself?" he queried, with a certain real gravity which she was not slow to discover. The color rushed into her face. She thought of Maurice Kenyon, and the mistake that he had made. She had long been conscious of her father's disappointment, but had not expected him to speak of it. She made an effort to be equal to the situation. "If you are vexed with me, it would be kinder to tell me of it than to sneer at all womankind in general," she said, with spirit. "Right you are, my girl. Well--why have you refused Kenyon?" Her eyes drooped. "I would rather you did not ask me that, father." "Nonsense, Lesley. A plain answer to a plain question is easy to give. Are you in love with any one else?" "No, indeed," she answered, vehemently; "I am not----" And then, for some inexplicable reason, she stopped short. "'Not in love with any one' was what she was going to say," said Caspar to himself, as he watched with keen eyes the changes of color and expression in her face. "And she does not dare to say it after all. What does that mean?" But he did not say this aloud. "You don't care for Maurice, then?" he asked her. She drew herself away from him and colored hotly, but made no other reply. "My dear," said Caspar, half jestingly, half warningly, "you must let me remind you that silence is usually taken to mean consent." And even then she did not speak. "Really, of all incomprehensible creatures, women are the worst. Well, well! Tell me this, at any rate, Lesley: you have not given your heart to Oliver Trent?" "Father! how can you ask?"