“See that man there working among the dahlias?--the man who once brought you a bunch of roses? Joe Ellison is his name. He's the man I've been talking about--your father.” He felt her quivering under his hand for a moment, and heard her breath come in swift, spasmodic pants. He was wondering what was the effect upon her of this climax of his revelation, when she whispered: “Do you suppose--I can speak--to my father?” “Of course. He likes all young women. And I told you that he and I were close friends.” “Then--come on.” She arose, clinging to him, and drew him after her. Halfway to Joe she breathed: “You please say something first. Anything.” He recognized this as the appeal of one whose faculties were reeling. There had never been any attempt here at Cedar Crest to conceal Joe Ellison's past, and in Larry's case there had been only such concealment as might help his evasion of his dangers. And so Larry remarked as Joe Ellison took his wide hat off his white hair and stood bareheaded before them: “Joe, Miss Cameron knows who I really am, and about my having been in Sing Sing; and I've just told her about our having been friends there. Also I told her about your having a daughter. It interested her and she asked me if she couldn't talk to you, so I brought her over.” Larry stood aside and tensely watched this meeting between father and daughter. Joe bowed slightly, and with a dignified grace that overalls and over fifteen years of prison could not take from one who during his early and middle manhood had been known as the perfection of the finished gentleman. His gray eyes warmed with appreciation of the young figure before him, just as Larry had seen them grow bright watching the young figures disporting in the Sound. “It is very gracious for a young woman like you, Miss Cameron,” he said in a voice of grave courtesy, “to be interested enough in an old man like me to want to talk with him.” Maggie made the supreme effort of her life to keep herself in hand. “I wanted to talk to you because of something Mr. Brainard told me about--about your having a daughter.” Larry felt that this was too sacred a scene for him to intrude upon. “Would you mind excusing me,” he said; “there are some calculations I've got to rush out”--and he returned to the bench on which they had been sitting and pretended to busy himself over a pocket notebook. While Larry had been speaking and moving away, Maggie had swiftly been appraising her father. His gray eyes were direct as against the furtiveness of Jimmie's; his mouth had a firm kindliness as against the wrinkled cunning of Jimmie's; his bearing was erect, self-possessed, as against Jimmie's bent, shuffling carriage. Maggie felt no swift-born daughter love for this stranger who was her father. The turmoil of her discovery filled her too completely to admit a full-grown affection; but she thrilled with the sense of the vast difference between her supposed father and this her real father.