“Father, dear father,” said Philip, taking his father’s hand, “that will I never, by the help of God.” “Forgive my momentary doubt, my son. You have never given me cause to fear. But what meant that tell-tale blush at the mere mention of the word assignation? Phil, my boy, there are few things that I hate more than the loose notions about morality and virtue which disgrace too many of the wealthiest youth of modern times. I have small faith in priests and in the cant of religion, but unsullied honour and true manhood, _sans peur et sans reproche_, _that_ should be the motto and the creed of all. Phil, are you worthy of that character to-night?” There was no mistaking the honest “Yes, father!” which this question elicited, and the old man returned to his book with a sigh of infinite relief. That sensation of relief, however, was by no means shared by poor Philip, who, though perfectly innocent of anything in the direction suspected by his father, felt his own peculiar secret weighing on his honest heart all the more heavily, because of what had passed between them. He longed to cast himself at his father’s feet and tell him all, but he was restrained by the consciousness that the revelation would be like gall and wormwood to one whose escutcheon was his _fetish_, and whose blue blood was sure to boil in aristocratic wrath at the bare idea of its commixture with the plebeian corpuscles of a village blacksmith. Had the moment been opportune, Philip would then and there have eased his soul by a full confession; but the old man had lapsed into pre-occupied silence, and, as if repentant of his unusual burst of emotion, his face resumed its aspect of reserve to a more than usual degree; so, after glancing through the pages of a book, but whether of poetry or prose, of fiction or philosophy, he knew no more than the man in the moon, Philip silently withdrew and retired to his bedroom, torn with anxiety and fear. I hope my readers are prepared to award their sympathy to my youthful hero. His mind was harassed by religious convictions and distressed by spiritual yearnings for a rest he could not find. His heart was filled with the force of an impossible love, a love which had laid an abiding hold upon his life, and these, with the dread, not so much of his father’s anger as his father’s grief, all tended to distract and sadden him. Seated in his bedroom he reviewed all the events of the evening, and put the question to himself, “What shall I do?” That was followed instantly with, “What ought I to do?”--always one of the wisest questions in the world. The answer came clear and full, like a revelation: “Go and tell your father.” Yielding to the impulse of the moment, and resolved to rid himself of the secrecy, which was so foreign to his nature, Philip straightway retraced his steps, and once more stood before his father, and said,-- “I should like to speak with you a few minutes, father, if you please.”