A few minutes later Leila bounced on to the veranda, exclaiming, “Papa wants you, Dan, in his study. Quick!” and with this she disappeared as she came. The summons was so sudden that Miss Marston started; but Dan, knowing the nature of Leila, did not apprehend that any one had fallen dead in a fit, as he might otherwise be justified in supposing. He assured Miss Marston that it was only Leila’s way, said he would be absent but a few minutes, and expressed a hope to find her on his return. Dan passed into the parlor through the glass door, meeting Clara, who joined Miss Marston. He then remembered for the first time that Susie, despairing probably of seeing him alone, had given him a note when she had opened the front door for him that evening. He stopped by the parlor door, out of sight of Miss Marston, and ran over it hurriedly. What it contained was terrible enough; and the writing was blurred, evidently by tears, but the effort the poor girl had made to cheat her breaking heart into the belief that Dan still loved her, was lost on him. He was not fine enough to understand it. As Dan crossed the threshold of his father’s study, the doctor wheeled round from his desk and rose, not offering Dan a seat. Dan saw with an inward misgiving that a storm was threatening. It burst upon him without the slightest preliminary. “Young man,” the doctor said, with perfect command of his voice, “I suppose you are aware of the condition of Susie Dykes through your folly.” Dan silently approached the mantle-piece, on which he leaned for support, for he was profoundly agitated. The doctor, who noticed everything, was moved at the signs of wretchedness his words had caused, and he continued, less severely, “I am sorry for you, my son; but my greater concern is about this poor girl. To a man it is nothing; to a woman it is worse than death.” Dan thought of the gracious being on the veranda, brilliant, refined, unapproachable, but for whose favor he had dared to hope, and he thought the misfortune was worse than death for him also; and as he waited, chewing the end of his youthful moustache, his heart hardened toward the poor girl who had so tenderly loved, so foolishly trusted him. But his silence was exasperating the doctor, who, he well knew, would see but one way to pay for his “folly,” as he had termed it. He said, therefore, doggedly, without looking up, “What is done is done. I suppose you wish me to marry her.” “_I_ wish you to marry her, you young scoundrel!” replied the doctor, livid with indignation at the heartlessness of his son. “If you have lost all affection for her, does not your sense of honor prompt you to make the only reparation possible, when you have done a wrong like this to an innocent girl?” “Innocent!” sneered Dan, “I’m not over sure about that, sir.”