So soft and satisfied was the smile with which she rewarded me that I vowed to myself that I really would forgive my old archenemy. A moment before it had been on my lips to speak of my confiscated letters, for I had no doubt that Rufus Blight had intercepted them. Now I realized that in them was a mine which I might fire only to shatter our new-found friendship. That treachery, too, I said, I should forgive. When Penelope set the light to the fuse, I with rare presence of mind stamped out the flames and prevented a disaster. We had passed Fiftieth Street, and I was telling her of my last visit home, of my father and mother, of Mr. Pound, and of all the friends of our younger days, when she suddenly turned to me. It was as though the question had for some time been hanging on her lips. "David, why did you never answer the letters I wrote you?" "Because." I was playing for time. To carry out my plan of silence, it seemed that I must deceive her, and I hesitated to tell her an untruth. "Because why?" she insisted. "Because I never received them," I answered, cheered by the thought that thus far I could tell her the truth. "Did you really write to me?" "Many times," she said; "until I got tired of writing and receiving no answer. You made me very angry." "The letters must have been lost in the mail," said I, bent on keeping this disagreeable subject in the background. "Country post-offices are very careless in the way they handle things, and mine to you--my letters--must have gone astray too." "Then you did write to me as you promised, David?" she exclaimed. "Until I got tired of receiving no answer," I returned, laughing. "But of course it is too late to complain to the government now." Penelope was not satisfied. Her brows were knitted. I believed that there lurked in her mind a suspicion that not the government alone was concerned in the interruption of that early correspondence, but I was determined to ignore a subject which, if too closely pressed, might bring about unpleasant consequences. The easiest way was to turn the trend of her thought with a bold question, which had been hanging on my lips through many blocks of the walk. And so, as casually as though I inquired of her about some distant friend or relative, I spoke of her father. Penelope stopped short and laid a hand upon my arm. Then as suddenly she strode ahead. "I know nothing of him, David," she said in a voice almost harsh. "I have not seen him since that dreadful day in the clearing. Once I heard from him--a few lines--but that was so long ago that at times I almost forget that I ever had a father." "What did he write to you, Penelope?"