Those arguments were very convincing, very specious. Maude ought, perhaps, to have perceived that they were not the original ideas of Mr. Tredethlyn. She ought, perhaps, to have discovered the parrot-like nature of his discourse respecting all the grand prospects of the house of Hillary and Co.; but she wanted to think well of her father, and Francis Tredethlyn urged her to that conclusion. She listened to his discourse as eagerly as if he had been the most eloquent of living creatures. She felt a kind of tender friendship for him as he talked to her; never before had he seemed so nearly on a level with herself. She wanted to believe in his wisdom; she wanted to respect his sense and judgment, because he was the defender of her father--that beloved father against whom her own conscience had so lately arisen, a stern and pitiless judge. The quiet river rippled under the summer moonlight before Maude and her companion left the terrace; so much had Francis found to say about the house of Hillary and Co., and the wonderful advantages that must come to him from a partnership in that great firm. Surely his enthusiasm must have arisen from some vague idea that even that commercial alliance would be some kind of link between Miss Hillary and himself. He talked very freely to-night, for Maude’s confidence had set him at his ease; and in almost every word he uttered he naïvely revealed some new depth in his devoted love. Late that night, when the Cornishman had gone away, Maude stood at her open window, looking out at the river, and thinking of all that Francis Tredethlyn had said to her. “Harcourt Lowther never loved me as this man loves me,” she thought, sadly. “Ah, what a pity that there should be so much wasted love and devotion in the world!” And then the thought of Francis Tredethlyn’s thirty thousand pounds arose in her mind,--a terrible obligation, a heavy burden of debt; a debt that was perhaps never to be cancelled. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXI. HARCOURT LOWTHER’S WELCOME. Within a month from that night on which the merchant’s daughter and Francis Tredethlyn had lingered so long together on the terrace up the river, Maude Hillary sat at her desk in the little study, trying to begin the most difficult letter she had ever had occasion to write. The letter was to be addressed to Harcourt Lowther, and the three words, “My dear Harcourt,” were already written on the rose-tinted foreign note-paper; but beyond those preliminary words Maude found it very difficult to proceed.