“No, I thank you,” he replied, thinking it best to get out of the tempest as soon as practicable. “You know it is the day before Christmas, and that is usually a busy time; besides, I have another engagement in half an hour, and there is barely time to reach my office. You will also excuse me for to-morrow,” he added, in a lower tone; and Editha knew that, after what had occurred to-day, it would be no pleasure to him to dine with them, as she had asked him to do. She knew, too, that her little plan regarding making a pleasant day for Earle was blighted. He bowed coldly to Mr. Dalton, and Editha followed him to the door. “Do not worry over what you cannot help, Miss Editha; eleven months won’t be so very long to wait, and, meanwhile, if you will send young Wayne to me, I think I can put him in a way to keep his head above water until that time,” he said, kindly, as he shook her hand in farewell at the door. Editha thanked him, with tears in her eyes, and then would have sought her own rooms, but she heard her father calling her, and so she returned to the library, though she dreaded another scene. “A fine spectacle you have made of yourself to-day,” were the sneering, angry words which greeted her entrance. She walked quietly to where he sat, and stood before him; but two very bright spots now relieved her unusual paleness. “Did you wish anything particular of me, papa? If not, I think it would be better not to keep lunch waiting any longer,” she said gently, though with an evident effort at self-control. “Do I want anything of you? I would like to give you a wholesome shaking for what you have done to-day.” She lifted her head, and encountered his two blazing, angry eyes, her own glance clear, steadfast, and unflinching. “You are a wilful little—fool!” he said, nettled by her calm demeanor, and almost beside himself with rage. Still she said nothing, and he instantly grew ashamed of those last words. “You have no idea how angry you have made me to-day,” he said, half apologetically. “I have no desire to make you angry, sir. I only desire and _intend_ to do right,” she answered, quietly. “Intend! Is that a threat?” “No, sir—merely a statement of a fact.” “And refers to what you said just before Mr. Felton went out?” “Yes, sir.” “Edith Dalton, if you dare to defy me in this thing, I’ll make your life so miserable that you will wish you were dead,” he said, in concentrated tones of passion. She paled again at the fearful words, and a keen pain smote her heart that her own father should speak thus to her; then she replied, steadily: “I have no wish to defy you, sir, but——” “But you will not obey me—you would set my authority aside if you could,” he interrupted.