'I understand. You may go on now, father dear; I am prepared--I am quite prepared. I know it was no light trouble that brought that look on Cyril's face; and Michael, too, was very strange and unlike himself.' And then she composed herself to listen. Dr. Ross told the story as carefully as he could, but he made no attempt to soften facts. A skilful surgeon cuts deep: the patient may quiver under the relentless knife, but the present pain will prevent lasting injury. Dr. Ross wished his daughter to see things from his point of view. It was impossible to spare her suffering; but she was young, and he hoped time and her own strong sense of duty would bring their own healing. He could not judge of the effect on her. Almost at his first words she had dropped her head upon his knees, and her face was hidden from him; and though his hand rested on her soft hair, she made no sign or movement. 'That is all I have to tell you, my darling. No one knows but you and I and Michael. I have not told your mother; I thought it best to wait.' Then she stirred a little uneasily under his caressing hand. 'My own child, you do not need to be told how I grieve for you and Cyril; it is a bitter disappointment to you both; but--but'--his voice dropped a little--'you must give him up.' There was no perceptible start; only, as he said this, Audrey raised her face from his knee, and looked at him. She was very pale, but her eyes were quite dry; only the firm, beautiful lips trembled a little. 'I do not understand, father. Why must I give him up?' 'Why?' Dr. Ross could hardly believe his ears as he heard this. 'My child,' he said, with a touch of sternness, 'it is very easy to understand. Cyril is not to blame--he is as innocent as you are; but the son of Matthew O'Brien can never be my son-in-law.' 'No,' she returned slowly, 'I suppose not. I ought not to be surprised to hear you say that.' 'It is what any father would say, Audrey.' 'Anyhow, it is for you to say it, if you think it right, and it is for me to obey you.' Then he put his arm round her with an endearing word or two. She was his good, obedient child--his dearly-loved daughter, who had never grieved him in her life. 'I trust I may never grieve you,' she replied gently; but there was a great solemnity in her eyes. 'Father, if you tell me that I must not marry Cyril, I shall be compelled to obey you; but it will break my heart to think that your mind is fully made up on this point.' 'My darling, you are both very young, and in time----' He stopped, arrested by the strangeness of her look. 'You think that we shall get over it: that is your meaning, is it not? But I am afraid you are wrong. Cyril loves me too well; he would never get over it.' 'But, my dear----' 'Father, will you listen to me for a moment? You need not fear that I should ever disobey you--you are my father, and that is enough. But I shall live in the hope that you will change your mind.'