This last task _did_ appear formidable. She put it off as long as she could; she got every body else in the right frame of mind before she ventured upon it; she had persuaded both Edgar and Mrs. Melwyn to second her, if need were, and at length, with a dreadful feeling of trepidation, she broached the subject to the old veteran. With all the coolness she could muster she began her speech, and laid the whole matter before him. He did not interrupt her while she spoke by one single word, or remark good, bad, or indifferent. It was awful--her poor little heart fluttered, as if it were going to stop; she expected the storm every instant to burst forth in some terrible outbreak. She sat there shuddering at her own rashness. If even Edgar had called her absurd, what would her father do! If St. Leger himself had been so difficult to manage, what would the old general say! He said nothing. She would not be discouraged: she began to speak again, to recapitulate every argument; she warmed with the subject; she was earnest, eloquent, pathetic--tears were in the good creature's eyes; still he was silent. At last, wearied out with useless exertion, she ceased to urge the matter any further; and endeavoring to conquer her feelings of deep disappointment, looked up in his face to see whether the slightest relenting expression was visible in it. No; his eyes were fixed upon the floor; he seemed lost in deep thought. "Papa," she ventured to say, "have you heard all I have been saying?" "Yes, child." Silence again for a few minutes, then--"Catherine, did you ever know me do a good action in your life?" "Dear papa, what a question." "Did you ever know me, I say, to do one thoroughly generous, benevolent action, without regard to self in the slightest degree--such as I call--such as alone merits the name of a really _good_ action? If you ever did, I can't easily forgive you." "Dearest papa! what have I done? Did I ever say? Did I ever hint? Dear papa!" and she looked ready to cry. "Did you ever?--no--I know you never did." "Don't say so--don't think so badly of me, papa." "I'm not thinking badly of you, child--God forbid; for well he knows if I ever did one really generous, benevolent action--one without reference to self.... Heaven bless thee, thou dearest thing, thy life seems only made up of such actions; but I say again, did you ever?--No; I know you never did--and I'll tell you why I know it." "Ah, papa! What _can_ you mean?" "Because," he went on without seeming to mind her emotion, "because, I observe, that whenever you want to persuade other people--your mother, or Edgar, or Lettice, for instance--to do something you've set your heart upon, you hussy--you always enlarge upon the happiness it will give to other people; but when you're trying to come round me, you only talk of how comfortable it will make myself." She could only utter a faint exclamation. The accusation, if accusation it may be called, was not to be denied.