There was a mingling of self-surrender and ruffled pride in her smiling reproach: “Lose me? What do you mean? I waited for you last night, sir, and all this weary morning, till I could wait no longer; I had to find you. I would have stayed at home till you came; I meant to, but father startled me: he said he was afraid you'd lose your place as Professor in spite of all he had done for you. 'Twas good of him, wasn't it, to give up running for Mayor, so as not to embitter Gulmore against you? I was quite proud of him. But you won't lose your post, will you? Has anything serious happened?--Dear!” He paused to think, but he could not see any way to avoid telling her the truth. Disappointments had so huddled upon him, the insight he had won into human nature was so desolating that his heart ached for sympathy and affection. He loved her; she was to be his wife; how could he help winning her to his side? Besides, her words voiced his own fears--her father had already begun to try to part them. She must know all and judge. But how? Should he give her “The Tribune” to read? No--it was vindictive. “Come and sit down, May, and I'll tell you what happened yesterday. You shall judge for yourself whether I was right or wrong.” He told her, point by point, what had occurred. May listened in silence till he stopped. “But why did he resign? What could he gain by that?” While she was speaking a thought crimsoned her cheeks; she had found the key to the enigma. Three nights before her father had talked of Washington and the East with a sort of exultation. At the time she had not paid much attention to this, though it had struck her as very different from his habit. Now the peculiarity of it confirmed her suspicion. In some way or other his action in resigning was connected with his inexplicable high spirits. A wave of indignation swept over her. Not that she felt the disgust which had sickened the Professor when he first heard of the traitorism. He had condemned Mr. Hutchings on the grounds of public morality; May's anger was aroused because her father had sought to deceive _her_; had tried by lying suggestion to take credit to himself, whereas-- “I wouldn't have believed it,” she murmured, with the passionate revolt of youth against mean deceit. “I can never forgive him or trust him again.” “Don't let us talk of it any more, dear. I wouldn't have told you only I was afraid that he would try to separate us. Now I know you are on my side I wouldn't have you judge him harshly.” “On your side,” she repeated, with a certain exaltation of manner. “On your side always in spite of everything. I feel for you more intensely than for myself.” In a lower voice and with hesitating speech she added: “Did he--did he tell you that he resigned on your account?” He nodded. “And you're not angry?” “No.” He smiled slightly. “I understand men better now than I did yesterday. That's all.” “Oh, but you ought to be mad. I am. How can you--”