He rose, and I sat still, thinking what I should say. “When thou art ready to turn from thy sin and ask pardon of God and of me, who am brought to shame on thy account, I will talk with thee.” Upon this I set myself between him and the door. “We cannot part this way. It is too terrible.” “That was a matter thou hadst been wise to consider long ago, Hugh.” “No!” I cried. I was as resolved as he. “I must be heard. How have I offended? Have I neglected thy business? who can say so? I was insulted in Meeting, and I went where men do not trample on a penitent boy, and if I have gone the way of my aunt’s world, is it my fault or thine? I have gone away from what, in thy opinion, is right as regards questions in which the best and purest side with me. Am I a child, that I may not use my own judgment?” It was the first time in my life that I had plainly asserted my freedom to think and to act. To my surprise, he stood a moment in silence, looking down, I as quiet, regarding him with eager and attentive eyes. Then he said, seeking my gaze, “I am to blame; I have too much considered thy chances of worldly gain. I know not whence thou hast thy wilfulness.” As I looked in the face of this strong, rock-like man, I wondered; for he went on, “Not from me, Hugh, not from me--” “Stop!” I said. “Thou hast said enough.” I feared lest again he should reproach her of whose sweetness I had naught but a gift of the blue eyes that must have met his with menace. I saw, as his hands shook, tapping the floor with his cane, how great were both his anger and his self-control. “It were well, my son, that this ended. I hope thou wilt see thy way to better courses. Thy cousin was right. He, too, is a man not of my world, but he saw more clearly than I where thou wert going.” “What!” I cried, “and thou canst think this? Thou hast believed and trusted Arthur Wynne! What did he say of me?” “I will not be questioned.” “The man lied to thee,” I cried,--“why, I do not know,--and to others also. Why did he deceive us as to Wyncote? What reason had he? As he lied about that, so does he seem to have lied about me. By heaven! he shall answer me some day.” “I will hear no profanity in my house. Stand aside! Dost thou not hear me? Am I to be disobeyed in my own house?” I but half took in his meaning, and stood still. The next moment he seized me by the lapels of my coat, and, spinning me round like a child, pushed me from him. I fell into the great Penn chair he had turned from the table when he rose. He threw open the door, and I saw him walk quickly down the hall and out into the orchard garden. For a week he did no more than speak to me a word when business made it needful, and then the monotonous days went on as before in the gray, dismal home, out of which the light of life’s gladness departed when those dear mother-eyes were closed in death. XIV