"Nothing at all?" says he. "Are you sure, Kitty—quite sure?" Father reached across the table to pat my hand, and he spoke in his kindest tone, sorrowful, but not angry. "No, father," I said. "Nothing you're hiding from us, Kitty?" I suppose it was easier to cry than to speak, and so T burst out sobbing again. But father didn't pay so much heed to the tears as he commonly did, for he was intent on what he had to say. "Kitty, are you hiding something from mother and me?" says he. "Don't cry, but look me in the face, and tell me! Kitty—" and his voice wasn't steady— "Kitty, if you'll just look me in the face, and speak out, and tell me you're hiding nothing, I'll believe you. I'd believe your word if things was ever so against you. Only look me straight in the face, and speak out firm and strong." But I couldn't do that. For all the lies I had told, I couldn't look him in the face and tell another. I just sat and sobbed. "Then there is something," says he to himself. "I wish the watch had never been given me at all," says I. "So do I too, if it's changed our Kitty like this," says father. And then he made one more try. He pulled his chair nearer, and looked at me anxious-like, as I could see. "I'm very much afraid there's something wrong," says he again. "I'm very much afraid you've not been altogether open and above-board. It don't matter why I think so, for I do. But it's not too late yet. If you'll speak out now, and tell the plain truth, mother and I will forgive what's wrong. We'll forgive, and we won't talk of it again. Won't you, Kitty? For your mother's sake and mine—and most of all for the sake of doing what's right, and pleasing to God. . . . You won't be happy going on so. . . . Kitty, haven't you a word to say to me? . . . Not one word!" I sat still, staring down on the table-cloth, with a big lump in my throat, but making no sign. "Won't you, Kitty?" says he once more. But I made no answer still, for I didn't know what to say, and my tongue seemed stiff, as if it wouldn't stir. So then he got up and walked out of the room, and I heard him say to mother in such a heavy sad tone— "No use! She won't speak!" Ah, if I had but spoken! If I had but told him I was puzzled, and didn't know how to act! If I had but replied to his loving words and looks! The moment he was gone, I wished with all my heart I had done differently: yet I didn't run after him. I was so afraid of being betrayed into letting slip about Walter Russell. I didn't see father again that evening, for mother made me go to bed early, and in the morning she wouldn't let me come down to breakfast. When I did come down, father was gone to his work. He would be busier than usual, we knew, for there were a lot of excursion trains running that day having to do with some races a few stations off.