Her face clouded. "My dear father--I think of him all the time. I wish to please him. I know--oh, I know, Mr. Huntington, that he would like me to stay here, but I do not wish to do so. It is such a conflict. If he only knew how I miss him,--how I hate to be away from him. He never used to have me do anything I disliked," and she tried to cover with her hands the sudden tears. "Poor child!" said the clergyman; then he rose and stood over her. "Can you not think of some worse trouble that might have befallen you?" "No, no, no,--I worship my father,--he was so strange,--I am afraid that I shall never live with him again. I think he wanted to get rid of me. Perhaps he is going to mar--marry himself." "You are about eighteen now, Derrice, are you not?" asked Mr. Huntington, gently. "Yes, on my last birthday." "Little Derrice, you are too young yet to know the priceless blessing of an unselfish love. You have married an honest man, and one devoted to you. Do not despise his affection. I have lived longer than you, and let me tell you that love is seldom found in its purity,--is seldom bestowed on a worthy object. You do well to stay here, to wait and be patient." Derrice, in suppressed surprise, wiped away her tears. The clergyman had suddenly lost his irritable and disturbed manner. He was earnest, impressive, even ardent. "Thank you," she said, gravely. "I will think of what you say. It is a consolation to find you here, for you recall happier days,--days spent with my dear father." She was going to cry again,--what a child she was!--and warmly clasping her hand, the young clergyman hurried from the room. CHAPTER VI. STERN HER FACE AND MASCULINE HER STRIDE. Mr. Huntington, after leaving the Mercer mansion, stood for a minute on the sidewalk, in deepest thought. He turned his face toward his own house, then, looking in the direction of the up-river suburbs of the town, he turned his head back again, like one drawn two ways, and, finally coming to a decision, hailed a passing car, and was whirled rapidly in the direction his thoughts had taken. A few minutes later he had reached the terminus of the car line, and was picking a somewhat muddy way toward a long, high-shouldered house of foreign aspect, situated on the river bank, and showing him a broad, friendly face at the end of an avenue of poplars. "Is Miss Gastonguay at home?" he asked of an old man servant, who opened the door to him. "Yes, sir,--she's just a-scolding of old Tribulation," said the demure old man, with ill-concealed satisfaction. "Look at him--" and he threw open the door of a near parlour. The handsome furniture of the room was pushed on one side, and in the middle of the polished floor stood a second old man, his gray head bent over the handle of a broom, tears raining from his eyes to the floor.