He had no idea that there was so much fire and spirit bottled up in the little lady, who until quite recently had appeared to him only a light-hearted, sweet-tempered child. True, she had been willful at times, but he had not minded it when it was confined to the little things of childhood, and never having had any other children, it had been a pleasure to pet her and indulge her in everything. He had hitherto always laughed when she opposed him, and often teased her for the sake of arousing her antagonism, which made her appear so pretty and brilliant. Now, however, it was another matter. She was setting up her will in stubborn opposition to his, and upon matters of vital importance to him, too. He had no notion of allowing her to compromise herself by befriending a miserable criminal, and he was bound to put a stop to it in some way. “Besides what?” he repeated, as she did not immediately reply. She looked at him askance, as if she was somewhat doubtful of the propriety of telling him anything more. But at length she said: “You know that Uncle Richard was also deeply interested in, and entertained a high regard for Earle——” “Please adopt a different way of speaking of him; I do not like you to use his name so familiarly,” interrupted Mr. Dalton, with an angry tap of his foot. “Very well; for Mr. Wayne, then,” she said, flushing; “and, during my last interview with him, he said he regarded him as a young man of great ability and promise, and that he had intended, as soon as he was fitted for the bar, to make him a partner in his business. All this he was going to do for one whom _you_ appear to hold in such contempt, and as soon as his time should expire, if he would accept it.” “I do believe that Richard Forrester was born with a soft spot somewhere, after all,” began her father, impatiently. “Yes, sir, and it was _in his heart_,” Edith interrupted, quietly, but with an ominous sparkle in her blue eyes. She could not tamely listen even to her father if anything disparaging was said of her beloved Uncle Richard. Mr. Dalton glanced at her as if resenting the interruption, and then continued: “He was keen enough in business and in making money, but he has shown himself almost an imbecile about some other things during the forty years that he had lived.” “Papa, do you forget that you are speaking of the dead?” Editha asked, in a low, constrained tone. “No; but I have no patience with such foolishness as he has more than once been guilty of,” was the impatient reply. “What has Uncle Richard done that is so very foolish? He told me on that last day that his life had not been all smooth. What has he done?” Editha asked, with evident anxiety. “No matter—no matter,” Mr. Dalton said, hastily; then, as if anxious to change the subject, asked: “Is that all you were going to tell me?” “No; but I’m afraid you will be even more displeased with the rest of it than with what I have already told you,” the young girl said, doubtfully.