He went to his father and talked to him as he had never talked before. “Your opposition is all nonsense,” said Mark. “Young Pennington is in every way worthy of her. I have taken pains to investigate.” The old gentleman fairly writhed under his son’s censures, and tried to excuse himself by saying, “Mark, I have said I had rather see her dead than married to a Rebel, one of Morgan’s men.” “Well, you will see her dead, and that very soon,” retorted Mark, thoroughly aroused. “Have you no eyes? Have you not noticed her pale cheeks, her languid steps? Is she the happy girl she was? Your foolish, cruel treatment is killing her.” Mr. Crawford groaned. “Mark, Mark,” he cried, “I can’t bear to hear you talk like that, you my only son. I have only done what I thought was right. You must be mistaken about Joyce.” “I am not; look at her yourself. Never was there a more dutiful daughter than Joyce. She would rather die than break her promise to you. Free her from it. Make her happy by telling her she can see Pennington.” “Mark, don’t ask too much. Joyce is all I have to comfort me. When I am gone you will be the head of the family. You can then advise her as you please.” “Better be kind to her and give her your blessing while you live,” said his son, turning away, believing that his words would bear fruit. What Mark had said deeply troubled Mr. Crawford. He now noticed Joyce closely, and was surprised that he had not perceived the change in her. He meant to speak to her, but kept putting it off day by day, until sickness seized him. The doctor came, and told him he had but a short time to live. Mr. Crawford heard the verdict with composure. The Puritan blood in his veins led him to meet death as he would meet any enemy in life. But he would do justice to his daughter before he died. Calling Joyce to him, he took her hand in his, and said: “Joyce, you have been all that a daughter should be to me, but to you I have been a hard, cruel father.” “No, no, you have been the kindest of fathers,” she cried, her tears falling fast. “Father, don’t talk so, or you will break my heart.” “Listen, Joyce. I now know how much suffering I have caused you. I drove from you the man you loved. Do you still love him, Joyce?” “Father, I love him, I shall always love him, but I have been true to my promise. I—” “There, child,” broke in Mr. Crawford, “say no more. I know how true you have been, how sacred you have kept your word, while I—oh, forgive me, Joyce!” “Don’t, father, don’t, you only did what you thought was right.” “But Pennington, Joyce—has he been true all these years?” “I charged him not to see or write to me until I bade him, and that was to be when I had your free and full consent. Father, have I that consent now?” “Yes, yes, tell him to come.” With her feet winged with love Joyce flew to send the glad message. But that night Mr. Crawford became much worse. It was doubtful if he would live until Calhoun could arrive.