Having escaped from Willie Hood, Joan paused for a minute to recover her equanimity, then she rang the back-door bell and asked for Mr. Levinger. Apparently she was expected, for the servant showed her straight to the study, where she found Mr. Levinger, who rose, shook hands with her courteously, and invited her to be seated. “You sent for me, sir,” she began nervously. “Yes: thank you for coming. I wanted to speak to you about a little matter.” And he went to the window and stood with his face to the light, so that she could only see the back of his head. “Yes, sir.” “I trust that you will not be pained, my dear girl, if I begin by alluding to the circumstances of your birth; for, believe me, I do not wish to pain you.” “I so often hear them alluded to, in one way or another, sir,” answered Joan, with some warmth, “that it really cannot matter who speaks to me about them. I know what I am, though I don’t know any particulars; and such people should have no feelings.” Mr. Levinger’s shoulders moved uneasily, and he answered, still addressing the window-pane, “I fear I can give you no particulars now, Joan; but pray do not distress yourself, for you least of all people are responsible for your—unfortunate—position.” “The sins of the fathers shall be visited on the children,” answered Joan aptly enough. “Not that I have a right to judge anybody,” and she sighed. “As I have said,” went on Mr. Levinger, taking no notice of her interruption, “I am not in a position to give you any details about those circumstances, or even the name of your father, since to do so would be to violate a sacred confidence and a solemn promise.” “What confidence and what promise, sir?” Mr. Levinger hesitated a little, then answered, “Your dead father’s confidence, and my promise to him.” “So, sir, the father who brought me into the world to be the mock of every one made you promise that you would never tell me his name, even after he was dead? I am sorry to hear it, sir, for it makes me think worse of him than ever I did before. Father or no father, he must have been a coward—yes, such a coward that I can hardly believe it.” “The case was a very peculiar one, Joan; but if you require any such assurance, that I am telling you nothing but the truth is evident from the fact that it would be very easy to tell you a lie. It would not have been difficult to invent a false name for your father.” “No, sir; but it would have been awkward, seeing that sooner or later I should have found out that it was false.”