The minister shut the book to hastily, and stood up. Then I saw how angry he was. “For the best, do you say? It was best, was it, to go and tell a young girl what you never told a word of to her parents, who trusted you like a son of their own?” He began walking about, up and down the room close under the open windows, churning up his bitter thoughts of me. “To put such thoughts into the child’s head,” continued he; “to spoil her peaceful maidenhood with talk about another man’s love; and such love, too,” he spoke scornfully now—“a love that is ready for any young woman. Oh, the misery in my poor little daughter’s face to-day at dinner—the misery, Paul! I thought you were one to be trusted—your father’s son too, to go and put such thoughts into the child’s mind; you two talking together about that man wishing to marry her.” I could not help remembering the pinafore, the childish garment which Phillis wore so long, as if her parents were unaware of her progress towards womanhood. Just in the same way the minister spoke and thought of her now, as a child, whose innocent peace I had spoiled by vain and foolish talk. I knew that the truth was different, though I could hardly have told it now; but, indeed, I never thought of trying to tell; it was far from my mind to add one iota to the sorrow which I had caused. The minister went on walking, occasionally stopping to move things on the table, or articles of furniture, in a sharp, impatient, meaningless way, then he began again,— “So young, so pure from the world! how could you go and talk to such a child, raising hopes, exciting feelings—all to end thus; and best so, even though I saw her poor piteous face look as it did. I can’t forgive you, Paul; it was more than wrong—it was wicked—to go and repeat that man’s words.” His back was now to the door, and, in listening to his low angry tones, he did not hear it slowly open, nor did he see Phillis, standing just within the room, until he turned round; then he stood still. She must have been half undressed; but she had covered herself with a dark winter cloak, which fell in long folds to her white, naked, noiseless feet. Her face was strangely pale: her eyes heavy in the black circles round them. She came up to the table very slowly, and leant her hand upon it, saying mournfully,— “Father, you must not blame Paul. I could not help hearing a great deal of what you were saying. He did tell me, and perhaps it would have been wiser not, dear Paul! But—oh, dear! oh, dear! I am so sick with shame! He told me out of his kind heart, because he saw—that I was so very unhappy at his going away.” She hung her head, and leant more heavily than before on her supporting hand. “I don’t understand,” said her father; but he was beginning to understand. Phillis did not answer till he asked her again. I could have struck him now for his cruelty; but then I knew all.