Then Kate, still needing no music on the rack before her, played the "Miserere" from "Il Trovatore," a Hungarian "Czardas," Mendelssohn's "Frühlingslied" and the overture from "William Tell." She followed these with the "Intermezzo" and the "Pizzicato" from "Sylvia," and then with "Narcissus" and "Sans Souci." And at the end of this, she paused again; for now her father had arisen and come close to her. With a hand on her shoulder, looking down at her with stern yet kindly eyes, he said: "'Sans Souci'? That means 'Without Care,' doesn't it, Kate?" "Yes, Daddy. Why?" she answered. "Oh, I was just thinking, that's all," said he. "It made me wish _I_ had no cares, no troubles, no sorrows." "Sorrows, father? Why should you have sorrows?" she queried, turning to him and taking both his shriveled hands in her warm, strong ones. "Sorrows? Why shouldn't I?" said he. "Every man of large affairs has them. Every father has them, too." And he bent over her and kissed her, with unusual emotion. "Every father?" asked she. "What do you mean? Am _I_ a sorrow to you?" "A joy in many ways," he answered. "In some, a sorrow." "In what ways?" she asked quickly, her eyes widening. "In this way, most of all," he told her, as he took her left hand up, and pointed at the finger where Waldron's ring had been and now no longer was. She looked at him a moment, hardly understanding; then bowed her head. "Father," she whispered. "Forgive me--but I couldn't! I--I couldn't! No, not for the world!" Flint's drug-contracted eyes hardened as he stood there gazing down at her. Once, twice he essayed to speak, but found no words. At last, however, blinking nervously, he said: "This, Kate, is what I want to talk with you about, to-night. Will you hear me?" CHAPTER XIX. CATHERINE'S DEFIANCE. "Hear you, best and dearest father in the world?" she cried, looking quickly up at him again. "Of course I will! Only, I beg you, don't--don't ask me to--" "I will ask you nothing, Kate, my girl, save this--to consider everything well, and to act like a reasoning, thinking creature, not like an impetuous and romantic school-girl!" Releasing her hands, he once more sat down in the easy-chair, crossed his legs and peered keenly at her, to fathom if he could the inner workings of that other brain and heart. "Well, father," she said, "I'll admit, right away, that I've done wrong to keep this from you, or to try to. We--I--broke the engagement, that day of the accident, out at Longmeadow. I _meant_ to tell you, tell you everything and explain it all, but somehow--" "You needn't explain, my dear," said Flint, judicially. "Wally has already done so." "And does he blame me, father?" cried the girl, eagerly, clasping her hands on her knees. "No, not at all. On the contrary, he claims the fault is all his own. And he's most contrite and repentant, Kate. Absolutely so. All he asks in the world is to make amends and--well, resume the old relation, whenever you are willing."