Nan knew the lines as a quotation. Why, why had she ever forgotten them? Why had she never once thought of them in all these weeks of doubt and pain? They put the case for Denis in a nutshell; and the quatrains before the quotation were hardly less poignant in their appeal, though Denis's "new mistress" was not war but wealth. Ah, if it had been war! And war was already in the whole air of England; but on the gold-fields there was no reason to think him other than safe and sound. So powerfully was she affected and inspired that Nan showed the lines to her father that night. It had often troubled her that he must think ill of Denis; that was a more hurtful thing than thinking ill of him herself--who had the right. So she showed the open book to Mr. Merridew, counting unconsciously on his sentimental side, and not in vain. "There," she said, "that is what I have been wanting to say for him all these weeks. There speaks Denis himself. He has called to me from the other end of the world. I was thinking of him when I went for a book, and I put my hand on this one, and I opened it at this place!" Mr. Merridew was full of sympathy--a quality in which he was rarely deficient when there was trouble in the air; besides, he cherished the most genuine desire for his daughter's happiness. If she could be happy believing in Dent, well and good, and it might all come right yet. The great thing was that despite her energies she had been pensive and wan for many a day, but that now she was flushed and bright. "Believe in him, dear!" she whispered in her father's ear, her arm round his neck. "I always did, Nan," he answered, stroking her hair. "No, not always; but you did once, and you will again." "Very well, Nan." "From this moment!" "No; not from this moment," said Mr. Merridew, characteristically seeking to justify his former asseveration, "when not for a single moment have I ceased to bless him for preserving my darling's life. How could I disbelieve in him in my heart after that? If I have ever done so it has been when I have seen you sad and sorry. But when I think of all he did for you----" "Don't; please don't!" Her face was hidden against him. He might have felt its heat. But it was in the plain troubles only that he was a sympathetic man. "But I must," he rejoined cheerily. "We must not forget all he did, and I am afraid we have. Why, Nan, what is it?" "I am going." "But why? What have I said?" "Nothing--nothing--only I wish he had let me drown--I wish that!" And with this hard saying the girl was gone, with tears that puzzled John Merridew to his dying day, and flaming cheeks that dried them as they ran. CHAPTER XXIII BROKEN OFF