"I think, for a clever man, he plays the worst game of whist I ever saw." "Yes, yes," admitted Winifred, with light mockery in her tone; "but what do you think of him in lesser matters,--general character, for instance?" The Professor looked at his daughter with a little quizzical sadness in his faded gray eyes. He began to perceive the drift of her banter. "It would be difficult to state exactly what I think of him when you put it so broadly as that," he answered. "Flint's character is complex. He has in him the making of a fine man; but the question is, will it ever be made? He seems to me abnormally lacking in personal ambition,--does not seem to care whether he is heard of or not,--has a sort of contempt for the little neighborhood notorieties which give most men pleasure. It is as if he were taking a bird's-eye view of himself, and every one else, and they all looked so small that the trifling variations in prominence did not matter." Winifred looked at her father in silent surprise. She had no idea that he had made such a study of the younger man. He paused for a moment; but meeting his daughter's absorbed gaze, he continued: "The thing which gives me most hope of Flint is his genuine devotion to truth. Positive or negative truth--it is all the same to him. Now, many a man is loyal to his convictions; but very few are loyal to their doubts. He will 'come into port greatly or sail with God the seas.' Fine line that, isn't it? The sound is quite majestic if you say it over aloud--'Come into port--'" "But, Papa," interrupted Winifred a little impatiently, "you were talking of Mr. Flint." "To be sure, so we were,--at least I was; but I should like to hear a little of your opinion of him. A woman's estimate of a man is always worth having, though not always worth heeding. You see too much in high lights and deep shadows, not enough by clear daylight; still, I should like to know how Flint strikes you. I remember at first you found him absolutely disagreeable." "Yes, Papa." "But of late you have seemed to change your mind, or at least to feel less prejudice against him." "Yes, Papa." A silence fell between them after this. At length Winifred rose and turned down the lights. Then she drew a low stool to the side of her father's chair, and sitting down by his knee began to rub her hand gently up and down over the broadcloth. "Papa," she said after a while, "I haven't been very nice to you; have I?" "Nonsense, child,--what put such an idea into your head? As if I had had any happiness in all these years since--since your mother died--except through my children!" "Oh, yes, I know you have found your happiness in taking care of us, but I have found my happiness in being taken care of; and I have enjoyed having my own way and doing the things I liked, and now I would give--oh, so much!--if I had been different."