She bowed in silence. “The world, society, people in general, my child, judge almost wholly by appearances. When there is a mystery, where there is secrecy, where every day of a young girl’s life does not lie fair and open to the public view, they suspect guilt, and they visit their suspicions on the offender in unstinted measure.” A great change had come over Aline’s face. It was white and startled, the lips were drawn in a line of pain. He had made her understand at last. There was no need to ask as he did, half sorrowfully: “Can you make the application, Aline?” A long, deep, heavy sigh quivered over the girl’s lips. She raised her eyes to his as if deprecating his words. Her voice was full of sorrowful anxiety. “Papa, is the world really so hard?” “I do not call it hard, Aline--only just,” he answered. She sighed and remained silent. “Only just,” he repeated. “It asks that a woman’s life be kept fair and pure and spotless, open to the eyes of all beholders. It does not tolerate secrets or mysteries. But it is not hard, it is only just. All pure men and women concur in its decision.” She did not speak, only gazed into his face with her large, clear eyes, as if waiting to hear more. “Aline, you are young, you are beautiful, you love life, you are of a most social disposition,” he said. “Can you afford to shroud your absence during those three months in a veil of mystery? Can you afford to have your whole life blighted and ruined as it will be if you persist in your silence? Can you do without hope and pleasure, without love and lovers, without friends and without respect?” Every word fell clearly and coldly. When he ceased there was a deep silence in the little parlor. They could hear the wild autumn winds sighing outside, hear the steady downpour of the rain, ceaseless as though “the heart of heaven were breaking in tears o’er the fallen earth.” Aline was sitting motionless, her dark lashes drooped against her cheeks, one small hand pressed unconsciously against her beating heart. “Of what are you thinking, Aline?” he asked, impatient of her strange silence. She raised her eyes slowly, and looked at him with a mute misery that pierced his heart. “Only of what you said, papa,” she answered. “Need it really be so bad as that?” “No, it _need not be_ if you choose to save yourself,” he answered, almost savagely. “You have only to speak, Aline, only to clear yourself from the appearance of evil. You will surely do so now when I have so patiently explained to you the terrible cost of your silence. You will not persist in your suicidal willfulness.” She sprung from her chair and stood leaning against the back of it, gazing at him with burning cheeks and heaving breast.