"Tell me, Mittie," he cried, "the whole length and breadth of the interest you have in this young man. I have suffered you to elude this subject too long. I have borne with your proud and sullen reserve too long. I have been weak and irresolute in times past, but thoroughly aroused to a sense of my authority and responsibility as a father, as well as my duty as a man, I command you to tell me all that has passed between you and Bryant Clinton. Has he proffered you marriage? Has he exchanged with you the vows of betrothal? Have you gone so far without my knowledge or approval?" "I cannot answer such questions, sir," she haughtily replied, the hot blood rushing into her face and filling her forehead veins with purple. "You have no right to ask them in this presence. There are some subjects too sacred for investigation, and this is one. There are limits even to a father's authority, and I protest against its encroachments." Those who are slow to arouse to anger are slow to be appeased. The flame that is long in kindling generally burns with long enduring heat. Mr. Gleason had borne, with unexampled patience, Mittie's strange and wayward temper. For the sake of family peace he had sacrificed his own self-respect, which required deference and obedience in a child. But having once broken the spell which had chained his tongue, and meeting a resisting will, his own grew stronger and more determined. "Do you dare thus to reply to _me_, your father?" cried he; "you will find there are limits to a father's indulgence, too. Trifle not with my anger, but give me the answer I require." "Never, sir, never," cried she, with a mien as undaunted as Charlotte Corday's, that "angel of assassination," when arraigned before the tribunal of justice. "Did you never hear of a discarded child?" said he, his voice sinking almost to a whisper, it was so choked with passion. "Yes, sir." "And do you not fear such a doom?" "No, sir." "My husband," exclaimed Mrs. Gleason, laying her hand imploringly on his shoulder, "be calm. Seek not by violence to break the stubborn will which kindness cannot bend. Let not our fireside be a scene of domestic contention, which we shall blush to recall. Leave her to the dark and sullen secrecy she prefers to our tenderness and sympathy. And, one thing I beseech you, my husband, suspend your judgment of the character of Clinton till Louis is able to explain all that is doubtful and mysterious. He is weary now, and needs rest instead of excitement." There was magic in the touch of that gentle hand, in the tones of that persuasive voice. The father's stern brow relaxed, and a cloud of the deepest sadness extinguished the fiery anger of his glance. The cloud condensed and melted away in tears. Helen saw them, though he turned away, and shaded his face with his hand, and putting her arms round him, she kissed the hand which hung loosely at his side. This act, so tender and respectful, touched him to the heart's core.