“Clarke says that whatever happens I must be brave,” babbled the forlorn-hearted little girl from under that caressing hand. “That poverty is not so dreadful, and that in time he will win his way without help from any one. But Oh, Mrs. Unwin, to think I might be the means of giving him the very start he needs, and then to be held back by one—Dear Mrs. Unwin, do you think it wicked to hate?” The question was so sudden, and the vision of the girl’s uplifted head with its flashing eyes and flushed cheeks so startling, that Mrs. Unwin hesitated for a moment, not knowing exactly what to say. But Polly, carried away now by a new emotion, did not wait for any answer. “Because I am afraid I really hate him. Why has he come into our lives just when we don’t want him; and why does he take from us everything we have? If he loved me I could bear it possibly, but he don’t even love me; and then—and then—he lives in such a way and spends his money so recklessly! Don’t you think it is wrong, Mrs. Unwin, and that I would be almost justified in not giving him everything he asks for?” “I should not give him this last five thousand, unless he can show you that his need is very great. No one will blame you; you have been only too generous.” “I know, I know, and I am sure you are right, but notwithstanding that, something assures me that I shall do just what he wishes me to. I cannot refuse him—I do not know why, perhaps because he _is_ my father.” Mrs. Unwin, whose face had assumed a look of resolution as Polly said this, impulsively stooped and inquired with marked emphasis, “Then you feel—you really feel at last, that he is your father? You have no doubt; no lurking sensation of revolt as if you were sacrificing yourself to an interloper?” Polly’s head sank on her clasped hands, and she seemed to weigh her answer before replying; then she responded with almost an angry suddenness. “I wish I could feel he is not what he pretends to be, but the villainous impostor Dr. Izard considers him. But I cannot. No, no, I have no such excuse for my antipathy toward him.” Mrs. Unwin leaned back, and her countenance resumed its dreamy expression. “Then I shall not advise you,” said she. “You must follow the dictates of your own conscience.” Polly rose and ran again to the window, this time with a cry of joy. “He is coming! Clarke is coming! I hear the gate click,” and she bounded impatiently toward the door. In a few minutes she returned with her lover; he had a letter in his hand and he was contemplating her with saddened eyes. “You will need courage, dear, to read this,” said he. “It is from your father and it puts his case before you very clearly—too clearly, perhaps. Your estimate of him was not far from correct, Polly. The story of his past life is not one you can read without shame and humiliation.”