She reproached her father with her eyes fastened on his face. His own were stern, fixed, and miserable. “You will let it be, won't you, father?” she begged. “It--it means so much. I--can't tell you--” She threw out her hand toward Ranson as though designating a superior being. “Why, I can't tell HIM. But if you are harsh with him or with me it will break my heart. For as I love you, father, I love him--and it has got to be. It must be. For I love him so. I have always loved him. Father,” she whispered, “I love him so.” Ranson, humbly, gratefully, took the girl's hand and led her gently to the veranda and closed the door upon her. Then he came down the room and regarded his prospective father-in-law with an expression of amused exasperation. He thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his riding-breeches and nodded his head. “Well,” he exclaimed, “you've made a damned pretty mess of it, haven't you?” Cahill had sunk heavily into a chair and was staring at Ranson with the stupid, wondering gaze of a dumb animal in pain. During the moments in which the two men eyed each other Ranson's smile disappeared. Cahill raised himself slowly as though with a great effort. “I done it,” said Cahill, “for her. I done it to make her happy.” “That's all right,” said Ranson, briskly. “She's going to be happy. We're all going to be happy.” “An' all I did,” Cahill continued, as though unconscious of the interruption, “was to disgrace her.” He rose suddenly to his feet. His mental sufferings were so keen that his huge body trembled. He recognized how truly he had made “a mess of it.” He saw that all he had hoped to do for his daughter by crime would have been done for her by this marriage with Ranson, which would have made her a “lady,” made her rich, made her happy. Had it not been for his midnight raids she would have been honored, loved, and envied, even by the wife of the colonel herself. But through him disgrace had come upon her, sorrow and trouble. She would not be known as the daughter of Senator Ranson, but of Cahill, an ex-member of the Whyo gang, a highway robber, as the daughter of a thief who was serving his time in State prison. At the thought Cahill stepped backward unsteadily as though he had been struck. He cried suddenly aloud. Then his hand whipped back to his revolver, but before he could use it Ranson had seized his wrist with both hands. The two struggled silently and fiercely. The fact of opposition brought back to Cahill all of his great strength. “No, you don't!” Ranson muttered. “Think of your daughter, man. Drop it!” “I shall do it,” Cahill panted. “I am thinking of my daughter. It's the only way out. Take your hands off me--I shall!”